


The Letters That Keep Us Together.

by Ayla221bee



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Background Relationships, Bisexual Greg Lestrade, Coming Out, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Letters, Long-Distance Friendship, M/M, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period Typical Attitudes, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:21:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 88,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23952976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ayla221bee/pseuds/Ayla221bee
Summary: Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade meet at  Cambridge in 1988. The two of them are about to go on their separate paths and decide to stay in contact with another through letters and occasionally meeting up. The two of them stay in each other's lives over the years and deal with the highs and lows of life that they experience.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 67
Kudos: 90





	1. May 1988- The Disappointing Party

**Author's Note:**

> The story starts in 1988 and takes course over several decades, I've tried to stay as accurate as possible and fact-checked by the internet and my parents, any mistakes are my own and will correct for accuracy if needed.

_May 1988_

The party had been a disappointing conclusion to his university career. The last few days had felt rather anti-climatic if Greg had to be completely honest, the weeks seemed to have had melted into one and he had been in such a rush to finish off the last few pieces of coursework and revise for his last exam. He somehow managed to complete a dissertation by some act of God, he had spent months crafting his dissertation and trying to make sure that every single word was perfect as if it could make up for the average grades that he recieved over the year. He had just finished off his last exam in the afternoon and his university career was essentially finished. The party was meant to be a celebration of three years being chained to his desk and to celebrate the beginning of thier lives but Greg found it to be a rather anti-climactic end to his university career.

It felt impossible to enjoy the party and Greg had little desire to be there. He wanted nothing more than to go to bed and sleep for at least two days in the attempt to recover from his sleepless evenings at his desk. He found it difficult to celebrate and to get lost in the atmosphere of the party especially when he realised that he had little in common with everyone crammed into the room now that their university days were now over. The combination of the bitter smell of cigarette smoke and the overly sweet fruit cider that he was drinking seemed to linger around him horribly. The music was far too loud and not to his taste and strong fumes from perfumes, aftershaves, and hair products caught the back of his throat horribly and made him feel nauseous. He wanted nothing more than to go home.

He knew that he should have been enjoying this last evening of freedom. His last proper evening without the concerns about the future and what on earth he was going to do next. He had spent the last three years of his life concerning himself with a degree in English and he had little idea about what he was even going to do with it. He couldn't even remember why he had even applied to do English at university three years ago, it just seemed like it was the next step for him when he had finished his A-levels. It was a safe option. He didn't know what he wanted to do with himself and going to university allowed him to prolong his teenage years in a way, hopefully, it would allow him to figure out what he wanted to do with his life on the way.

He never really felt that he belonged when he was in university. He had applied for Cambridge as a joke and he never expected to get in, let alone being asked to attend an interview. He had always considered himself to be rather thick when he was at school, admittedly he used to be a bit of a class clown but he did get decent grades somehow. When he had recieved a letter requesting to attend the university for an interview, Greg could hardly believe it and he spent two days convinced that the university had played a joke on him. He believed that the only reason that he had gotten into the course was the fact that the admissions board wanted to have a few working-class kids in the university for diversity or that they had taken pity on him once they had seen his address. It seemed far too good to be true being accepted into a posh uni, especially with someone with his background.

This party seemed to hammer in the fact that he did not belong, not just to the university but also with his classmates. It was not a secret that the majority of them were privileged and they had opportunities practically given to them or they could afford them. The already had the support networks which would help them land a well-paid job within the year or so. Over the last few months, Greg was surrounded with the constant murmur among his classmates about who was going to apply for a masters degree or who had managed to get a foot in the door company because their father played golf with a particular person. It was difficult not to feel bitter about his situation, Greg's luck seemed to only extend to getting a place in Cambridge and then it seemed to have left him. The opportunities that he could have seemed far and very few between. 

It did not help that he had little idea about what he wanted with his future. He didn't think that he would amount to much if he had to be honest, his teachers, mates from back home, and his dad had hammered in the nail so many times. His mates back home had little to do with him these days, they had started to act a bit odd towards him when he mentioned that he had recieved an invitation for an interview at a posh university, they thought that he was getting above himself while they were struggling to get jobs or they were still working in the same family-owned cafes and pubs they worked in since they left school. 

He was as lost as they were, the only difference was that he had higher education. 

Greg decided to go and get some air once he saw an old girlfriend of his sit on the lap of one of his so-called university 'mates' who he was on the football team with. Lizzie had only broken up with him a few weeks beforehand and she seemed to take pleasure in flirting with his mates in front of him. She had broken up with him out of the blue, he thought that they had been rather happy together even if they were chalk and cheese. Greg did have the feeling that she only went out of him to upset her dad, he did look disappointed when she did bring her 'bit of rough,' for dinner during the holidays. Her dad was a strange fellow, he followed him around the house and made him empty his pockets before he felt, he accused him of stealing the antique teaspoons from the family collection to flog in the market. 

Greg perched himself on the wall with a cigarette perched between his lips. He tried to take in the surroundings of Trinity College for the last time, it felt bittersweet and a pang of nostalgia ran through him. He doubted that he would get much time to admire the view the next day and would be caught up in the long and stressful task of packing and moving his life back into his mum's council flat. He did not know what he wanted to do with his life, the first plan that he had was to find a new life for himself in another city. He had never felt that attached to Essex and he had wanted nothing more than to leave when he was in school. The feeling had grown stronger when he would come home for the holidays. The council flat and the town felt too cramped for his liking and he felt that he had outgrown it. He found himself frustrated and fed up when he was home as nothing had changed in the months that he was away and he was having the same conversations with people in the pub every evening. 

He had always fancied London and had considered moving there as soon as possible. He enjoyed the animosity of London and how it was a city of strangers. He liked the constant buzz of the city and how it felt it was impossible to get bored. He found himself agreeing strongly with Dr Samuel Johnson when he found the quote: ' _W_ _hen a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford,'_ when he was working on his dissertation. Once he had read the quote, moving to London and starting a life there just seemed like the only logical option. 

He rummaged in his pocket for his lighter and swore quietly under his breath once he realised that he left it in his jacket. He tucked it behind his ear and decided that he could not be bothered going back inside for the party, it seemed far too much effort to pretend to be nice with the obnoxious and British lads who were in his halls and liked to hang around on the staircase. He thankfully had a twenty quid crumbled up in his pocket, it would be enough to prolong his time from the party and keep him busy in the pub, he might even get himself chips from his favourite shop. He felt that he would miss that chip shop more than university. 

The door of the building opened to reveal a rather frazzled looking student that Greg had never seen before. He was tall with a distinctive nose and striking eyes. Greg found it rather interesting that he was wearing a jumper without sleeves, he had never seen anyone outside the television wearing something like that. The student was undoubtedly posh but he had a different air around him than the other students, he lacked the arrogance of the lads in his hall. The student nodded in greeting to him when they made eye contact before he perched on the stairs of the building and quickly turned his attention to the thick book that he had taken out of the bag that he brought with him. 

He attempted to read for a moment before he closed his book in disgust and sighed at the music that was blaring. The combination of Belinda Carlise's _Heaven Is a Place On Earth, Bananarama,_ and unidentifiable Queen song clashed horribly on the tinny speakers that were on full blast. It was 

"Not enjoying the party?" Greg asked. "I thought that it was a bit of a disappointing way to end university." 

"I was not invited," the student replied dryly. "I was not wanting to attend anyway. I was essentially forced out of my room by someone playing The Smiths in the room next to mine. I thought that I would leave before I lost my hearing or went mad."

Greg let out a chuckle and ran a hand in his hair. "I would have done the same thing," he replied. "It's an awful way to spend my last evening at university, it almost makes me glad that I'm going back into the real world tomorrow." 

"What is the real world?" The student asked, amused and with a raised eyebrow. 

Greg thought for a moment and shrugged. "Not idea actually," he said. "Just out of this bubble you know? I like it here and it's not been a bad way to spent three years of my life, but I don't exactly belong here." He gestured his arm in the direction of the grounds in front of him. 

"What makes you think that?" The student asked. "You did manage to get here on your academic merits and ability. So is the real world better than Trinity?"

"Do you not play that game where people like to determine people's class just from the way that they look or by their accent?" He asked. "As much as I like this place, I will not miss the posh snobs looking down their nose at me and getting called a 'peasant' or finding me to be interesting as I come from a council estate."

He pushed himself off the wall with a sigh. "It's great here and I've met some nice people, but Cambridge doesn't matter back at home," he said. "I'll give you a better answer once I find out myself."

"I think that where you are from is unimportant," The student said in a quiet voice. "I have always valued people's intelligence more than anything. I find most of the people to be idiots. It's proven to me that just because someone has money, it does not mean that they necessarily have brain cells." 

He gave him a shy smile before he looked away and looked at the ground with great attention. He looked surprised and his cheeks gained some colour when Greg let out a chuckle about what he said. "I should not keep you from the party," he said. "The music might have improved by the time that you've been out."

"I'm Greg by the way, it's nice to meet someone decent here," Greg said with a smile as he offered out his hand. He had never been one for handshakes before he started university, they were usually only reserved for job interviews but they had become second nature to him over the last few years. 

"I know who you are," he said before he took Greg's hand. "Mycroft Holmes,"

Greg blinked. He had never heard of a name like _Mycroft_ before, it almost sounded as if it came from the sixteenth century or centuries before then. He ignored the urge to ask Mycroft about his name as he knew that Mycroft would have been asked the same set of questions about his name every time that he introduced himself. He had the same experience when it came to his surname and it was downright irritating. The name ' _Holmes,_ ' did ring a bell for him but he could not place where he had heard it before. 

"Of course you would know who I am, everyone knows who the _commoners_ are," Greg said in a terribly posh voice. 

"We share the same staircase, my room is on the other end of the corridor," he explained. "Your friends thought that it would be funny to puncture the tires on my bicycle and mess with the breaks when I did not write an essay for one of them."

Greg frowned and moved to sit next to Mycroft with a sigh. It was why the name Holmes sounded familiar, the other lads in his corridor seemed to take great pride in tormenting other students, they had only left him alone as he was a member of the football team. He had heard Mycroft's name mentioned by them and he was often referred to as ' _That Freak Holmes;_ among other comments about him. He could remember how they seemed to boast about how they had managed to 'get back at Holmes,' as if England had won the World Cup by the stairs and displayed a bicycle bell as if it was a prized trophy. 

"They are a right bunch of twats. I've never been friends with them, I can hardly stand them." Greg confessed. "I can go and say something to them if you want?"

"There is no point in doing so," Mycroft shook his head with a defeated sigh. "It happened at the start of term and I've already paid for the repairs. There is not much point in causing a fuss for the sake of it. You shouldn't let me hold you back from your party, the music must have improved by now." 

  
"What are you going to do when I'm at this party?" Greg asked. 

Mycroft gestured to the book that was lying on his bag. "Reading." 

"What are you doing to do when it's completely dark out here?" Greg asked, amused. "Do you have a torch in that bag or are you going to use a street light? Fancy getting some chips?" He asked suddenly. 

Mycroft looked at him almost as if he had grown a second head or if he was speaking another language. "I'm wanting to get some chips and I was wondering if you wanted to come along with me? I'll pay." Greg offered. 

It a simple gesture and he doubted that chips could make up for all the torment that Mycroft dealt with or compensate for a broken bike. They seemed more like an olive branch in the form of greasy pieces of potato and would hopefully make him feel less guilty about not doing more to stop the lads in his halls when they picked on other students. He hadn't wanted to get bothered by them and get into trouble, he just wanted to get his head down and get his dissertation done, he had tried to get them to stop picking on the other students and had sent a few insults in their way but that was the extent of his involvement. 

Mycroft seemed to take great thought in his offer. "Why are you doing this?" Mycroft eventually asked with a puzzled expression on his face. "Normally people only want to speak to me when they want an essay written or class notes." 

Greg had the feeling that Mycroft was a bit of a loner and that he spent the majority of his time in his room or the library. He had never seen him going around the campus and he doubted that he went to the pub with the other students. He almost seemed surprised that someone was engaging in conversation with him and was friendly to him. He had heard the lads talk about Mycroft and they called him a 'freak,' but Greg could not understand, he seemed perfectly ordinary. 

"I'm not needing your help with any of my classwork and I've just had my final exam," Greg said with a shrug. "I prefer a bit of company when I eat. There is better light in the chip shop if you are wanting to read, it will save you the eye strain. Besides, it's not like you've got anything better to do."

Mycroft seemed to weigh up his offer in his mind with great care before he eventually stood up and placed his bag over his shoulder. "I'm only going for the lighting," he replied with a small smile. "I'm paying for my chips."

* * *

"So what are the big plans with a history and politics degree?" Greg asked. "What big changes to the world are you going to make with that? Are you going to use is for good or world domination?"

Mycroft popped a chip into his mouth and thought carefully. "I doubt that I am going to change the world, that is far too ambitious for my liking."

"Not just the whole world, it's just the little bits and pieces of it that are around you," Greg said. "Everyone can make a difference if they put their mind to it, even if it just a small thing. It adds up eventually, you know?" 

They sat in silence for a long moment in the booth inside the nearly empty chip shop, the smell of chip fat lingered in the air, then they started to laugh. "I can't believe that I've said that," Greg groaned. "That is cheesy." 

Mycroft nodded in agreement. "I think that I heard something similar in a school assembly about recycling." 

"That's my attempts at being motivational and inspiring gone out of the window," Greg said. "I was trying to get you excited for the world outside of this bubble. I doubt that you need my help anyway, you've probably got your life planned out. I can see you as being the type with a chart with your big life plans stuck to your wall."

Mycroft stabbed a chip with his little wooden fork. "Hardly," he said. "What about yourself? Going to change the world with a degree in English?"

Greg shook his head and fiddled with his can of Coke. "No idea, move to London and seek my fortune there?"

"That is such a cliche," Mycroft snorted. "Predictable."

"What is wrong with London?" Greg asked. "You are going to be one of those people who go to London after university to work in an office. I'll expect a postcard in the next year or two with a picture of Big Ben on it from you."  


Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Of course I'm going to London, it's a cliche for a reason. Everything is in London."

Greg barked out a laugh and grinned. "What big plans await for you there?" He asked. 

Mycroft had little idea about what he wanted to do once he left university, his family had a plan for him but he was not fond of the idea of taking Uncle Rudy's position in the government once he was ready. He felt just as lost as Greg even if he was reluctant to admit it to himself. He barely even knew what he liked to do or if he had any interests that his parents had not influenced him to like and deemed them suitable. He had considered becoming a historian or a writer, and he had briefly considered the idea of working in an archive, he always did appreciate the organisation of an archive each time that he had visited one. He had considered even joining the drama society at one point when they were doing Shakesphere, but his parents would not approve and wanted him to stay in the library studying and disapproved of him attempting to make friends. 

"I have not decided yet," Mycroft said with a shrug, he sipped at his tea that tasted rather greasy. "I've got one more year of university at least and hopefully I'll know by then once I get some work experience."

Greg nodded thoughtfully and waved a chip in his direction. "I've applied for all these jobs but heard nothing back. I'm sure that they just go to the students with silver spoons in their mouth and double-barreled surnames. It's a tough game out there, Myc." 

"Myc?"

"Is that not what your friends call you?" Greg asked. 

"I don't have any friends," Mycroft replied. 

"Should I call you Myc then?" Greg asked with a charming grin that almost made Mycroft feel giddy when he saw it. 

Mycroft wrinkled his nose at the name, he was never that fond of nicknames and he did not know if it was normal for friends to give each other nicknames. "I suppose so, you did pay for my chips after all."

Greg grinned and clapped on him on the shoulder before he decided to get another portion of chips for himself.

Mycroft watched Greg make his way to counter and he wondered if this was a mistake. He was in a chip shop that he had never visited before in his time in university, he had let his diet slip horribly, and he had become friends with someone who he would probably never meet again. He had first noticed Greg in the library at the start of his first year and he had been taken back by handsome he looked while reading a textbook. He had quickly become smitten with him, almost convinced that he looked as if he could star in one of those classic films that he liked. He saw Greg regularly in the library and the corridors but he never could work up the courage to say hello to him. He knew that people like Greg did not see him, he was almost invisible. He did not want to say the wrong thing and he did not want to cause more trouble for himself if anyone found out that he was gay, especially with everything in the news which seemed to increase people's ignorance. It would surely end his career before he even started one and his parents would be so awfully upset with him. 

Greg walked back to the table with a bag of chips and poured a generous sized portion of them on Mycroft's nearly empty bag without even asking. 

"The third year of university is so much easier to deal with when you've got friends," Greg said through a mouthful of chips. "That is my big piece of advice and don't leave your dissertation to the last minute."

"Thought that you would be starting your exciting life in London," Mycroft commented with a raised eyebrow. "There are more exciting people to meet in London than me. You'll forget me in the morning."

"You are one of the only interesting people that I've come across in my three years at uni, Myc," Greg replied. "I'm wanting to keep in touch and I suppose that we can meet up when we've got the time, only if you are wanting to?"

Mycroft thought for a moment and considered it carefully, he did enjoy talking to Greg and a friend might not interfere with his studies too much. It would be rebelling against his parents and he got a thrill from it. He wiped his hands on his napkin, pulled out a sheet of paper from his notebook and started to write down an address and a phone number eagerly. "You can write to me first," he said, trying to keep his voice level. "Only if you have not forgotten who I am," Mycroft added. 

He ripped the sheet out of paper and pushed to Greg, who started to write his address on the notebook and left greasy marks on the page. "I doubt that I am going to do that, I'm always going to look at this evening fondly even when I'm eighty," he grinned. "The night of the disappointing party and wonderful conversation at a chip shop."

Mycroft tried to smile and he wondered if he had just made a mistake.


	2. June 1988- The First Letters

_June 1988._

Unlike most students, Mycroft did not enjoy the summer holidays and often wished that he was back at university. He appreciated having the time away from his studies and how he was now able to read for pleasure. He often read two books a day in order to compensate for reading that he’d missed. He enjoyed not having to stay in student accommodation for several months and deal with the obnoxious students who teased him endlessly for little reason. He would try his best to enjoy his time at home, the days seemed to drag on horribly at times and he often felt rather suffocated. He often wished that the holidays would end as soon as they had begun.

Mummy had insisted that he worked that summer and Mycroft had found himself agreeable to the idea. He had decided that a book shop was a suitable place to work. He thought working in the shop would improve his social skills enough to be able to write amusing anecdotes about his day and the books he’d come across could be written in his letters to Greg. He would also gain personal enjoyment as he could talk about books as easily as he could talk about the weather and customers found him particularly interesting when he did.

He had mentioned the idea to Mummy one morning over breakfast, but she laughed at him as if he had made a joke, quickly dismissing the idea with a wave of her hand. His brother had a similar reaction but chose to take it further in cackling like a hyena, spraying tea out of his nose and taking the opportunity to insult him. Normally Mycroft would have allowed himself to be offended at his brother’s reaction, yet he allowed it to slide with how Sherlock had barely spoken to him in days. Sherlock had drowned out any attempts at conversation with his Walkman and Mycroft had been rather convinced that he’d gone deaf, and found himself surprised that Sherlock could at least hear enough to still insult him.

Mummy had then announced that she had organised a job for in Uncle Rudy’s office, which was more suited for him, the undertones of her voice telling him sternly that it would be more appropriate for the family’s image. His father would be embarrassed to discover that his son worked in a shop like a _common person,_ according to Mummy.

It was a mundane job and Mycroft found himself counting the minutes until he could return home. Uncle Rudy seemed to be rather bothered by the fact that he was in the office, claiming that he already had an assistant and did not need him lurking around like a spare part. Despite the hesitations to have him around, Rudy gave him a desk chair that wobbled terribly along with an old side table that would act as his own desk. It had been kept in the storeroom for years and Mycroft shuddered at the guesses as to what the numerous marks on it had been caused by or why one of the legs had to be repaired several times.

It felt like a degrading job and Mycroft didn’t expect to have an important role in Rudy’s office, but he had hoped that he would be able to do more than make tea and occasionally answer the phone. The only positive aspects of the job was that Rudy allowed him to read his book on the job and had even allowed him to use an old typewriter to write.

He had made the mistake of leaving out several pages of a story that he had painstakingly typed on his side table when he rushed out to run errands, returning to find that his pages were covered in red ink of comments from Rudy. He claimed that his work was _unimaginative and dull._ When Mycroft had brought himself to flick through to the last page, he found a substantial paragraph of criticisms with the outstanding statement being that ‘ _he had made a fair effort but should leave writing for the professionals’._

Rudy had called him into his office shortly after he’d returned and given him a lecture. Rudy scolded him for wasting his time on something as frivolous as writing, especially when he was not good at it. As much as Mycroft wanted to defend himself and his writing, he kept his mouth shut in fear that if he had spoken out, Rudy would tell his mother. Her disappointment wouldn’t even be the worst as he feared to even think about how his father would react to the situation.

Mycroft could not get a word in edgewise when Rudy started outlining the career path he was going to be taking. He had made a timeline of when he was meant to achieve certain goals. There was a second sheet of paper was given to him, instructing about what societies within the university that he was meant to join for the networking opportunities. There was an emphasis on joining the fencing and the rowing clubs for the contacts and what invitations that he should be accepting along with the ones he should be rejecting. Rudy had even outlined the classes that he was meant to take and what lecturers that he needed to please. The largest emphasis was on how receiving a 2.1 could be the start of a slide into failure.

There was a sudden feeling of claustrophobia that crashed over Mycroft and it almost felt impossible to breathe as Rudy gave instruction about several other factors he’d apparently not covered in the last hour. He gave instruction about how his nephew was going to spend the summer holidays, what he should be doing with his free time outside the office and that he should be improving his appearance, or nobody would take him seriously.

Mycroft almost felt nauseous at the realisation that his life could not differ from the path that was being laid out for him. He felt like an animal who was trapped in an office that was chained to a desk. The dim colours of his individuality that he had managed to hold onto for most of his life had been stripped away from him and what was left was a bland figure in a suit.

He tried to protest but the words died in his mouth when Rudy said a particular name to him. The little air that he had managed to get into his lungs soon left and a cold chill down his back, the memory of a fire burning in his brain. It had been years and the smell of the smoke could never leave his subconscious with the sound of his families screams ringing clearly and was only muffled by the terrifying giggle from a child.

Rudy almost looked regretful when he had mentioned that word and decided to send him home early. Mycroft was not sure if it was his imagination or not, but he swore that his uncle was wearing eyeliner and had a beauty mark under his eye that had not been there before.

On the train ride home, Mycroft forced himself to ponder about Uncle Rudy’s eyeliner for longer than he would normally care to do so. It was a necessary thing to do in the attempt to ignore the misery that he felt about having his life snatched away from him and every aspect of it scheduled from the age of twenty until he was in his mid-sixties. He had the sickening realisation that he would never be able to escape from it, it was far too cruel to his parents and Sherlock if he tried. The truth would only hurt them terribly and his heart would break to make mummy upset.

He attempted his best to keep a British stiff upper lip and numb the feeling of grief threatening to overtake him. He chose to pretend instead that he was upset about Rudy’s comments over his writing and the small embarrassment of it being found when it was a first draft.

* * *

Martin’s Cafe.

Chelmsford.

17th June 1988.

_Dear Mycroft,_

_I do apologise in advance for any spelling mistakes and my awful handwriting. I do hope that you will be able to make out what I have written in my chicken scratch, doesn’t help that the biro that I am using is threatening to run out on me._

_I have never really written a letter to anyone before...well, I have written thank you notes to my gran for Christmas. My mum sometimes tells me what to write but usually she would just make me sign the letter that she had written for me. I don’t think that counts as a letter though._

_I am not sure how I am meant to start off this letter. I don’t want this to feel like a letter that you would have to send to a pen pal in France, I had to do that in school and it was horrid but I think that you heard enough about my life when we were in the chip shop. I still couldn’t believe that we actually got told to leave at one in the morning by the staff! I swear that time just flew by when we were talking. I don’t know if you were trying to be kind to me just where I bought you chips. You were also generous enough to let me borrow your lighter and I was surprised to find you were a smoker._

_I should stop rambling, I do apologise for how awful this letter must be. I promise that they can only get better!_

_I hope that you are doing well and that you are enjoying the holidays. I’ve managed to have an alright time even if I am stuck at home. It just feels rather grim to be home especially when I don’t have uni to go back to in the summer. I’m actually counting the days and the pennies that I make; each one gets me closer to being able to move to London. I can’t stand being here._

_It’s not like I hate being home, I love being able to see my mum and I missed her cooking terribly when I was at university, but It just feels odd and that I don’t fit in anymore. That I am not the same Greg that I was when I left for university and I’m trying to shove myself back into this old life once more._

_  
I know that you probably don’t care to hear (or read this), but I feel that I need to tell someone at least. It’s not like I have anyone that I can talk to about it, everyone thinks I’ve turned into this posh snob and that I’m above myself since I went to uni. I’m the first one in my family to go to uni, everyone apart from my mum left school when they were seventeen, worked in the same job and never left home. The thought of doing that sounds horrific and it feels like a wasted life._

_I’ve managed to get myself a job in a book shop. I only managed to get the job because of a family friend. It’s not a bad job, rather dull actually. Hardly anyone comes into the shop and I get to spend the time reading behind the counter. The money isn’t bad for the little work that I do._

_Mum has been banging on about finding a proper job as I’ve got a degree now. She thinks that I should become a teacher. It is all that she can go on about, you would actually think that she was the one who has a degree from Cambridge. She actually cried when she saw that I got a 2.1, she was actually more thrilled than I was about it. She’s already got a frame for it and phoned the whole family. I wouldn’t be surprised if she had it printed on coasters or gets it tattooed on her back with how she is carrying on._

_I don’t even know if I would want to become a teacher. It’s a sensible job and mum keeps going on about how it will keep me going until retirement. I don’t know if teaching is for me though, I don’t really fancy a job where I have to spend my time behind a desk._

_I don’t even know what I want to do with my life yet. Have you any idea about what you would like to do? How does someone know what they want to do for the rest of their life?_

_I’m thinking about going on a holiday in the next few weeks. I’ve always fancied going up to Edinburgh and I’m hoping that it is going to do some good with helping me clear my head a bit. I’ll send you a postcard when I am there. Have you ever been to Scotland?_

_Have you been up to anything exciting recently?_

_I’m not sure how to end this letter, my biro is starting to give up on me…_

_I do promise that the next letter from me will be a lot more interesting. I’ll even attempt to find the prettiest postcard to send back to you once I’ve arrived._

_Greg._

_P.s. Do you have any book recommendations? I’m slowly working my way around the books in the shop._

_P.s.s. I know that it’s a bit early to ask but do you fancy meeting up before you go back to uni?_

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
The letter was waiting for him when he arrived back from London that afternoon. It was lying on the floor by the door, neglected. Mummy disliked mess in the house and letters were usually placed on top of the side table by the coat stand moments after they were placed through the door. Mycroft let out a sigh when he realised that Mummy was having one of her bad spells and was probably still in bed.

Mycroft had not seen her in two days, and he had tried to ask about her wellbeing as he left a mug of tea outside her door several times a day, but she refused to speak to him. The mugs were often neglected, yet Sherlock usually had better luck with her, managing to talk to her for ten minutes the evening before when he brought up dinner.

She always had time for Sherlock and was always pleasant to him, but it was a different story when it came to himself. Mummy did not bother to hide her dislike for him these days and rarely spoke to him unless she was giving him instruction or criticising him.

Before Sherlock could see the letter, Mycroft placed it in his inner jacket pocket - a present that he had bought for himself to celebrate his exam results, since no one could be trusted to give him a gift that was suitable or buy him something that he liked. Nobody even made the effort to pretend to be pleased about his results and he quickly climbed the stairs to his bedroom, pushing these thoughts aside in anticipation of reading Greg’s letter.

He closed the door and quickly scanned the letter, immediately feeling envious when Greg mentioned that he was working in a book shop. He did not know if he was envious of Greg’s job or the fact that Greg had the freedom to not know what he wanted to do with his life and did not have the next forty-five years planned for him.

His bedroom door opened without warning and Sherlock watched him silently for a moment. He had developed the habit of doing so, always claimed that he was practising his deductions.

“What are you reading,” Sherlocked asked from the doorway. “Who is sending you post?”

“Get out of my room,” Mycroft snapped, and he shoved the letter back into the envelope. “It’s none of your business.” 

Sherlock’s voice irritated him to no end, it transported him back to those painful years that he wished to forget each time his mouth opened.

“I’m not in your room,” Sherlock replied with a smirk. “I’m in the corridor. Have you found yourself a girlfriend who is writing you love notes? I bet that she is stupid and blind, probably deaf as well, your voice is painful to listen to.”

“It’s none of your business,” Mycroft said through gritted teeth, “You must have something better to do than bother me. Has Mummy left bed today? Has she spoken to you?”

Sherlock shrugged and leaned against the doorframe. “I managed to get her to watch her soap operas and speak to the maid,” he said. “Who is writing to you? If you don’t tell me, I’m going to find out myself and I’ll tell Mummy that you are keeping secrets. It will upset her terribly.”

“I’ll tell her about your smoking,” Mycroft said quickly, “You are getting too thin again, you need to be eating. I know that you have not eaten today.” He tried his best to ignore how thin Sherlock was starting to become, the baggy jumpers that he purposely wore starting to look ridiculous on him. He did seem to have a lack of care for himself and had not run a comb through his hair in days. Mycroft often worried that he was going to end up in a spot of trouble for himself. If one of his siblings had already gotten themselves into a spot of bother over the years, history was bound to repeat itself with the other.

“You are getting too fat,” Sherlock replied mimicking his voice. “I will go on hunger strike if you don’t tell me who's writing to you.” 

Mycroft stood up with a loud sigh and knew he was losing the battle. He started to count down the days that he had until he could go back to university and he was in student accommodation once more. He nudged Sherlock out of the door frame as he walked out in tow and guided him to the kitchen by his shoulder.

He would have moved out already, but he could not allow himself to do it. He knew that Mummy would not care too much if Sherlock had not eaten in days and she barely noticed when Sherlock had not been home in several days. She had barely blinked when he had tried to run away in the past. He had no choice but to stay as no-one else would care about Sherlock if he wasn’t there.

Mycroft occupied himself in the kitchen and placed a plate of scrambled eggs, toast and sausages in front of Sherlock and made a plate for Mummy to leave outsider her door again. His place at the table was empty apart from a mug of tea.

  
Sherlock refused to eat and sat with his arms folded, a challenging look on his face. He knew that his brother was more than willing to start a fight and carry on until he had obtained victory, even if he had to require hospitalisation.

Mycroft was more than willing to let him starve and did not say anything for several minutes before he relented. He did not wish any harm on Sherlock even if he did irritate him. “It is from Uncle Rudy,” Mycroft lied smoothly. “I can give it to you if you wish?”

Sherlock nodded and had thankfully started to eat once he had spoken. Mycroft slid his hand into his pocket and pulled out the sheets of paper that Rudy had given him in the office that afternoon, passing them to his brother.

Sherlock snatched the sheets of paper from his hand and scanned them before launching them away with a disgusted snort. “You were acting so secretive over that?” Sherlock sniffed. “God, you are the most boring person out there, Mycroft.”

Mycroft tried to hide his smirk and congratulated himself for his efforts. It was not often that he had a victory over his brother, and it was his first in two years.

He excused himself to his bedroom and hid the letter from Greg between the pages of his Russian dictionary. He noticed that the handwriting on the envelope looked very similar to the scrawl of Uncle Rudy and a brilliant idea washed over Mycroft. He gleamed to himself as he realised that his letters from Greg could go undetected until he went back to university. 

* * *

St. James Park

London.

20th of June 1988.

_Dear Gregory,_

_I do hope that you are well, and I do thank you for writing._

_I do not have much time to write to you this afternoon and my letter might not be as interesting as yours was to read. I am currently on my lunch hour from work at the moment and I am hoping to have written this letter and sent it away before I need to be back at my desk._

_I should start off my letter with congratulations about your new job. I am almost green with envy about having a job in a book shop. I like to believe that I would be suited for a position such as that and the shop that you work at sounds ideal for myself. I have never been that fond of people and I would happily sit in a shop and be able to read undisturbed._

_I have written a list of book recommendations on the back of the postcard that I have sent you. I am afraid that I could not find a postcard with Big Ben on it and I hope that a postcard with a lion from Trafalgar Square will suffice._

_It has been a productive summer holiday for myself and I have managed to catch up with the books that have been gathering dust on my shelf and I’ve also been brushing up on my Russian._

_Admittedly, I would rather be in university accommodation than home. I have a younger brother, Sherlock, who is a thorn on my side. I like to believe that he is compensating for the months that I have been away, and that is the reason why he has been extra irritating of late. I will not go into detail; I am not wanting to ruin a perfectly good letter discussing my brother._

_I often have a similar feeling when I visit home, especially during the holidays. I would never say this out loud to anyone in the fear that I would appear rude and ungrateful. I am usually not one to share my problems, but I do find writing about them has a rather therapeutic effect. I often write things down, if I do not, I am afraid that I will say something that I will regret._

_I do feel as if the small pieces of happiness and independence that I do find at university are quick to leave when I am back at home. I can feel trapped at times and I would leave if I could, but I cannot leave my brother behind. I worry about him constantly._

_  
I will not go into detail about this. I do not care to share, and I only have a short amount of time before I have to visit the post office before I need to return to work._

_I am more than happy to read anything that is on your mind, is that something that friends do? I have been told before that I am an excellent listener (reader, in this context)._

_I do hope that you will write or we will speak on the telephone before you go up to Scotland. I also do hope that you will enjoy yourself thoroughly and that the weather is not too horrible. I have been to Scotland and I find it to be a beautiful country that is rich in history. I do wish to go again soon but I never have the time._

_For your next letter, I request that you do not write down a return address, please. I am unable to secure an alternative address for my letters at the moment. My brother has found it fascinating that someone has sent me a letter and he likes to invade my privacy. I have discovered that you have very similar handwriting to my Uncle Rudy, and I have been able to trick my brother into thinking that he is the one who is writing to me._

_If possible, Gregory, do you mind writing in blue ink? Or at least on the front of the envelope and could you use a first-class stamp? I will, of course, give you the money for this extra effort and I have included several stamps for you in the envelope._

_I do hope that you write soon and that you will continue to keep well._

_A warm handshake to you,_

_Mycroft Holmes._

_P.S. If you do wish to phone me on the telephone, it is best to do so before eight o’clock in the morning to prevent my brother from listening in_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say a big thank you for the support that I have recieved for this story so far! Also, a bigger thank you to the lovely johnwatsonblog who helped to look over this chapter! 
> 
> I'm planning to hopefully upload once every two weeks.


	3. July 1988 -Reality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg struggles with the loneliness of life outside university, while Mycroft struggles with an annoying younger brother. The letters start to act as an escape from reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Johnwatsonblog who proofread/edited this chapter for me.

_July 1988_

Greg spent every free moment that he had since he left university reading. He had never read so much in his life and on particularly quiet days, he could get through two books. He read anything that he could get his hands on and working in a bookshop meant that he was never short of reading material.

The books had become a welcome distraction from how dire the real world felt since he left university. He had been looking forward to going home and he had admittedly enjoyed the first few days back, but the novelty soon wore off and he wanted nothing more than to be in Cambridge when he realised how repetitive his life had become.

His days were a mixture of going to work, coming home, housework, and then going to bed. Occasionally he would go to the football with his dad or his mum would drag him to her book group once a week, it being a covert attempt to find him a girlfriend. It was also blatantly obvious that she wanted to show him off to her friends simply because of his degree. The highlight of his week was writing to Mycroft or making a trip to the library.

He didn’t speak to any of his old mates these days and it had been awkward meeting up with them on the few times he had ventured to the pub or the local cafe. They had been funny with him since he went off to university and these friendships had become increasingly frayed over the years. He had missed too many events when he was away and had outgrown his group of mates who still acted like they were in school at times. He unfortunately found that he had less to say with them over the years and they were the same with him, ignoring him when he passed in the street. They had accused him on more than one occasion of being a snob since he went off to university or that he thought that he was better than them. They had never said it to his face of course, but he knew who they were talking about when they were purposely avoiding him in the pub.

He had hoped that his holiday to Scotland would have cheered him up and was convinced that he simply needed a change of scenery, it being a help of some sort to adjust to outside life. The only thing he definitely knew was that he needed the break after the stress of his dissertation for months where he spent far too long at his desk. He really enjoyed Edinburgh and while there, he developed an appreciation for Walter Scott novels and Scottish poetry around his time sightseeing. Thankfully the weather hadn’t been too awful, and he found that he drank too much whiskey.

It was a good holiday, but he did wish that he had a bit of company. He thought that Mycroft might have enjoyed Edinburgh and imagined that Mycroft would have enjoyed the museums as well as the castles in Scotland. He would have been better company than just some books.

Greg kept the postcard of book recommendations that Mycroft had sent him in his jacket pocket and took it wherever he went. Every day when he was at work or in the town, he was on the search for the books that Mycroft had recommended in his neat handwriting. The postcard had even gone to Scotland with him and had been used as a makeshift bookmark when he was reading on the train.

The majority of the books on the postcard were a mixture of classics or obscure texts that he had never read before and he had found himself pleasantly surprised when he found several science fiction novels on the list. Those were the ones he liked the most but struggled to make his way through some of the books that Mycroft recommended.

He had never really liked the classics and found some incredibly dry and dull. He also got himself confused when he read Wuthering Heights, the changing narrative meaning he had to re-read chapters, and The Brothers Karamazov. Despite doing an English degree, he rarely read for leisure until recently and he didn't really appreciate novels. He much preferred plays, poetry, and comedies, and adored Oscar Wilde and Shakespeare. 

He had been reluctant to share that information with Mycroft out of the fear of looking unintelligent so found himself determined to make his way through the list of books that Mycroft recommended, even if he did struggle with them at times. He found that reading anything, even if he found the books dry occasionally, helped him pass the time. He also found himself wanting to impress Mycroft.

  
It was easy enough to find the majority of the books when he was at the book shop. There was at least four of everything written by Wilde and a huge pile of Dickens that was threatening to collapse at any moment. The shop was quiet for the majority of the day and he could spend a good portion of his day reading by the till once the customers had been served and any odd jobs had been done. 

The most interesting conversations he had day to day were with pensioners and middle-aged women, them often being interested to see what he was reading and were keen to discuss Shakespeare with him. It would usually end with book recommendations from him or they gave him recommendations on what he should read next. They were often the highlight of his day and were the only people who didn’t treat him as an outsider since he had returned. 

The highlight of his week was to writing to Mycroft and the letters had helped him to feel less lonely in the ten minutes that it took to read them.

He had phoned Mycroft once he got back and it was possibly the best half-hour that he had since he returned from Scotland. The phone call was slightly awkward and stunted at times, but enjoyable. He had found that on the phone, Mycroft only seemed to be capable of talking about books.

Mycroft seemed to be rather nervous talking to him on the phone and quickly brushed off any of his concerns or questions about how his holiday was going. He was also reluctant to talk about himself and claimed th _at ‘nothing interesting has happened to me that is worthy of talking about,’_ when he asked what he had been up to.

Instead, Mycroft had been incredibly interested in him and wanted to know every single detail of what _he_ had been up to. He asked questions about his job, what he got up to in Scotland, what he had been reading, his family, and how his life was outside university. He seemed to be thrilled to hear even the mundane details of his life. Greg had never had anyone that interested in him before.

The conversation with Mycroft really flowed when it came to books, it being difficult to get a word in edgewise at times, but Greg found that he liked listening to Mycroft get so eager about them. It was almost as if Mycroft had not spoken to anyone in days and was thrilled to have someone who would listen to him. Greg was thrilled that someone wanted to talk to him as well. 

* * *

Foster’s & Co. Bookshop.

Chelmsford.

20th July 1988.

_Dear Mycroft,_

_It was absolutely fantastic to speak to you on the phone the other day. It reminded me that you do exist, and you are not just words on a page, even if your letters are brilliant to read._

_I also do apologise in advance for any smudges on the page, this pen seems to be a bit leaky. I hope that you don’t mind too much. I am at work at the moment and I can’t exactly run out of the shop and get a new one. I would have written to you later, but I never get the peace to write and I’m having to accompany my mum to her book group tonight._

_That is how I’ve been spending my Friday nights since I’ve come home from holiday. It’s tragic, isn’t it? Mum has been determined that I find a girlfriend as soon as possible, she has gone absolutely nuts. She is convinced that if I go to book club with her, one of the women there will introduce me to their daughters, and it will be wedding bells within six months._

_We are currently reading ‘_ _Love in the Time of Cholera,’ for the book club. My mum has been telling me that I should ‘flaunt my degree,’ when I’m discussing the book where she’s convinced that it’s going to help me impress all of the women in the group so they will want me to meet their daughters. They hardly discuss the books; all they do is gossip. I know for a fact from this gossiping that Mrs Fraser’s new rug looks terrible and that Mrs Vickery’s daughter is getting married to a man that is ‘more handsome than Richard Gere’. I spend most of the evening sitting in the corner eating biscuits, waiting for it to be over._

_Hopefully, your mum isn’t as embarrassing as mine. Does your mum try and get you girlfriends? I don’t know if that is normal or not…_

_Work has been incredibly dull today and I’ve had a total of two customers. One of them was incredibly rude to me and managed to knock down a pile of books with her bag. They didn’t even bother to help me organize them again or even say sorry, they acted like it was my fault...well it was partly my fault. We’ve got far too many books on the shelves and there’s hardly any space for them. It’s just chaos when there is brand new stock, especially when it is from a house clearance or auction house as there is nowhere to put all of these books. Mr Foster (he owns the shop and a right tosser by the way), just makes me pile everything up on the shop floor and they’re constantly toppling over._

_I have been attempting to read ‘Love in the Time of Cholera,’ for tonight and have found it terribly boring. I thought that writing to you was a better way to spend the time._

_Christ, someone has managed to knock down more books…_

* * *

The Number 13 Bus.

_I think that this is considered to be part two of the letter…_

_Currently writing on the bus home and I do apologise if the writing is slightly squiggly in places. The council hasn’t gotten around to filling up the potholes in the street and the road is bumpy as anything._

_I would be writing at home, but my mum is as nosey as anything and so is my sister. I’m needing to think of a good place to hide my letters from you since I’ve caught my mum trying to catch a glimpse at your letters when I’m reading them. She is convinced that I’m receiving letters from a ‘lady friend’ and thinks that it is awfully romantic. She tends to get caught up in ideas like that and it wouldn’t surprise me if she is already planning the wedding in her head. She does this each time that my sister even mentions that she has a date._

_Has your brother been trying to read your letters again? He does sound like quite the character, especially when he does things like listen in to our phone call. Does he actually call you names like that? My sister is thankfully less annoying and is the only person who hasn’t made a fuss or treated me like I’m odd since I’ve gotten back. She actually doesn’t care that I’ve been to Cambridge or have a degree and mainly thinks that I’m a ‘massive bore.’_

_You’ll like Susie, she is the only person who is worth talking to here. She’s training to be a hairdresser and she’s got a wicked sense of humour. She is tame compared to your brother and doesn’t do any experiments. Has your brother been up to anything interesting and still working on that experiment with the fish heads in your room?_

_Have you been up to much this week? I never really know what to say in these letters. I hope that I don’t bore you with them._

_How is the Russian going? Is there any particular reason for wanting to learn that? I’m not sure if it is for world domination or you are actually training to be a Russian spy. I know that Russian spies are not meant to tell other people that they are Russian spies, but you can tell me. I won’t tell anyone, I promise._

_I can only speak a bit of French and that is it really. I’m better at speaking it once I’ve been drinking as I discovered when I was visiting family last year. Can you speak any other languages?_

_I’m wishing that I was back on holiday. It’s been a week and I’m already needing to have another holiday from it. Scotland was far too lovely and amazing; I can’t possibly describe it. I think that you would have loved it as well, you do look like the type who likes a museum. You should come with me when I next go, I think that it would do you some good to be away from home for a bit. I know that it is a bit odd to suggest that, especially as I could be an axe murder or a serial killer. I can assure you that I am not one, if that makes it better._

_I’m also wondering if you were available to meet up sometime? I’m currently looking in London for places to live and seeing what the place is like for jobs. I’m also wanting to do a bit of sightseeing. I don’t really know anyone there or know my way around London so I thought that if I’m in London, I would make a day out of it and see you._

_I would write for longer, but I need to get to the post office before it closes._

_All the best,  
Greg. _

* * *

Mycroft had taken up to hiding in his father’s office in the early hours of the morning when he wanted to read or write as it was the only room in the house that Sherlock did not dare to go into. He had found himself sleeping on the sofa in the office over the last few days, Sherlock’s experiment had gone terribly wrong and his bedroom smelt of fish and the curtains had been badly burnt.

Sherlock hadn’t given him an apology for destroying his bedroom and Mycroft felt rather foolish for expecting one. He could count on one hand the number of times his brother had apologized or was even polite to him over the last ten years. He would have made a fuss, but he did not want to upset mummy.

It was impossible to sleep on the old leather sofa with how uncomfortable it was and Sherlock made it nearly impossible to sleep with his tendency to play the violin late at night. He deliberately played it poorly and it sounded like it was screeching. It was only marginally better than Sherlock’s tendency to knock on the wall in Morse code and tell him to _‘fuck off_ ’, among other rude phrases in the early hours.

He often regretted giving Sherlock that book on Morse code for his birthday. He considered it to be one of his biggest mistakes in life.

Unable to sleep and not wanting to waste any time, Mycroft found himself writing in the early hours. He replied to his letters from Greg and had already made a start on his university reading for the first term. Sometimes he would write in his journal and very rarely did he allow himself to write stories.

He had been somewhat discouraged after the comments that Rudy made on his work and he had been reluctant to attempt writing again, but the urge often took over him. It was frivolous and it was a waste of time, especially as he was not good at it.

Mycroft would allow himself to write two sheets of paper at the most. Once he was finished, he folded the sheets of paper up neatly and placed it in the fire in the attempt to hide the evidence. He knew that Sherlock would tease him terribly if he knew that he had been writing stories, and Sherlock would be more cruel than Uncle Rudy on his feedback. 

He doubted that his self-esteem could take another battering from Sherlock. He felt somewhat fragile after the lecture from Rudy at work and was miserable at home. He found himself counting the days until he could go to university once more.

His last year of university almost felt like his last year of freedom before he was forced to sit behind a desk for the rest of his life and Greg’s letters had been a welcome distraction. His phone call had been the most enjoyable thing that Mycroft had experienced since he left Cambridge. He was more than thankful that Greg did not seem put off when he wanted to know every detail about his holiday to Scotland and was more than happy to indulge him. 

He could almost pretend that he was in Scotland from how Greg talked about it and with all of the Scottish history books that he had read recently. He wanted nothing more than to not be at home.

He found himself wanting to spend time with Greg and had seriously been considering meeting up with him in London. He did not know if he had let himself get swept away with the fact that Greg wanted to listen and was keen to talk to him on the phone, and that he had a friend. That phone call was the first time that someone had spoken to him in days…

Well, it wasn’t completely true, Sherlock had been communicating to him through Morse code over the dinner table by blinking and again, told him to _‘fuck off_ ,’ amongst other comments. He had the feeling that if Mummy had not been at the table, he would have insulted him verbally.

He weighed up the pros and cons about meeting up with Greg in London. It would be easy enough to do so without arising Sherlock’s curiosity about where he was and who he was spending time with. 

Sherlock had been desperate to read his letters again and he had little understanding of the concept of privacy. Sherlock thought that it was hilarious to read his journal and claimed that he did not do anything wrong, he was just following his teachers suggestion that he should read more. He found Mycroft’s journal was ‘a comedic and tragic handwritten book.’

He had the feeling that Sherlock was using it as blackmail material and after being inspired by Pepys, Mycroft had tried to write his journal in code. Sherlock managed to decipher the code he had created in one rainy afternoon. 

After Sherlock had decoded his journal for the second time, Mycroft decided that it would be best to start editing his journal entries heavily and had stopped being fully honest when he wrote in his journal.

After spending a great deal of thought on the matter of meeting up with Greg, Mycroft scribbled down his reply. He thought that it would be pleasant to have one afternoon where he would not be insulted or ignored before he went back to university.

He also thought that it would be lovely to spend time with a friend and have an afternoon where he could pretend that he was somewhat ordinary.

* * *

The Private Office on the second floor.

Sussex.

28th of July 1988.

_Dear Gregory,  
  
I do apologise for taking slightly longer than planned to get back to you. I found it rather difficult to read parts of your letter due to the ink smudges and the scrawl near the end of it. I do recommend that you find yourself a good pen to write with and not to use public transport when you write. I will buy you a pen for your birthday, it seems like it is the only way to remedy this situation. _

_I do hope that you have managed to cope with your mother’s book group. You did make it sound horrific in your letter and I do hope that you are able to read something more interesting for their next meeting. I would have imagined that someone like you would have been spending time with friends or at least going to the pub on the weekend._

_Then again, I spent last Friday evening attempting to remove the smell of fish from my room and clean up another of Sherlock’s experiments. I am currently counting the days until I get back to university and I’m considering not going home for the holidays this year. My brother has been more irritating of late and has decided to only communicate to me through Morse code over the last two weeks._

_I am still not sure if I prefer him insulting me verbally or through code, I am currently undecided. It is rather difficult to ignore his insults when he is communicating through blinks over the dinner table or tapping at the wall. I would heavily recommend that you do not teach your sister Morse Code, it has been my biggest mistake._

_Sherlock is rather interested in why someone is writing to me, especially as I ‘make watching paint dry fascinating and that my voice drives people to madness.’ Thankfully, he has not thought that it was a ‘lady friend,’ who has been writing to me, unlike your mother. According to Sherlock, I am ‘more likely to be struck by lightning than to have a friend_ ,’ _and he knows that I am as interested in getting a girlfriend as he is._

_Thankfully, my mother has not attempted to find a girlfriend for me, it has come up in conversation occasionally on the days when she wants to talk to me. She is hardly interested in talking to me the majority of the time and much prefers to speak to Sherlock on her good days.  
  
Has your mother had any luck in finding you a girlfriend? Are you currently looking for one? _

_It has been an incredibly dull week for me, but your letter was a highlight. I won’t bore you with stories at what happened at work even if I was able to. I did have to buy myself a new set of curtains that were identical to the ones I had before after Sherlock managed to burn them. Thankfully the rug was spared from the experiment, but I did end up losing several of my books. The fire caught them on the edges and damaged them. It was only the Hemmingway that I lost so it was fine._

_Thankfully the weather has been pleasant enough to allow me to cycle in the countryside. Sherlock accompanied me one evening, wanting to collect tadpoles for an experiment. I'm afraid to ask what he is doing and I'm not sure if I do want to know. He often leaves his 'experiments' in my room when I'm away at university and often neglects them until they start to smell or decay. I often fear what I will come across when I come back during the breaks._

_I believe that you might find Sherlock’s antics to be funny. I would happily trade siblings with you, but ~~I find~~ _I have heard _that sisters are more problematic than younger brothers._

_I can assure you that I am not a Russian spy, I do believe that is something that a spy might say to not be thought of as a spy. However, with the amount that Sherlock is annoying me, world domination might be necessary. I will make sure to spare you though._

_I can speak several languages with various degrees in fluency. I would hardly call myself an expert, I feel that it is awfully pretentious to do so. I do enjoy learning languages and I consider it to be a useful interest of mine, but it is not overly interesting to talk about. I am the most fluent in French, my grandmother was French, and she refused to let my brother and I speak English when she visited or when we were in France. We also had a tutor for Sherlock but that was disastrous._

_Even though Sherlock is fluent in French, he liked to pretend to the French tutor that he struggled with basic concepts and grammar in the attempt to annoy me. It frustrated me to no end after the fifth lesson of when to use ‘tu,’ and ‘vous.’._

_I am afraid that your letter is far much more interesting than what I could ever write. You do not need to worry about boring me with your letters, I am thrilled to read anything that you write about, even if you could do with handwriting lessons and better writing equipment. I do wish that I was able to write something more interesting for you._

_I do apologise for being awful on the telephone the other day. I was trying to be quiet, so Sherlock did not notice that I was speaking to you. I am also very sorry that he did interrupt us, I was very much enjoying listening to you talking about Dorian Gray. I might have to start phoning you from the telephone box in the village or call you from work._

_I would very much like to meet up with you in London and there are some very interesting museums and bookshops you might enjoy. I could possibly meet you next month as I finish work early on Fridays. I can give you a tour of what I consider to be interesting in London if you wish. You do not need to worry if I am a serial killer, the chance of us both being axe murders is rather small._

_We can sort out the details on the phone later. When is the best time to phone you?_  
  
How have you been getting on with the books? I do hope that you have been enjoying them. I do assume that they are rather simple compared to what you prefer to read. Do you happen to have any recommendations? I trust that you will have a good taste in literature. 

_I do hope that you write back soon, and the next letter is not covered in smudges._

_A kind handshake to you,_

_Mycroft Holmes._

_P.S. I will also make sure to take you to a stationary shop when we are in London. It might guarantee that your future letters are more readable._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has liked, commented and supported this story! It has already been such a joy to write this story. 
> 
> I'm rather excited for the next chapter as the boys are meeting up. 
> 
> Another thank you for the wonderful Johnwatsonblog who has edited this chapter and has been a wonderful writing companion over the last few weeks.


	4. August 1988- Tea Solves all The World's Problems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Greg meet up in London and Mycroft discovers the pleasure of hugs.

_August 1988_

Greg had an odd feeling in his stomach after he had read Mycroft’s last letter that he could not describe. He was thrilled that Mycroft wanted to meet up with him in London, a child-like excitement that filled him once he had read the letter. He had quickly sent back a reply and included several phone numbers, including the number for the shop and a list of times for when he would be available and what number to contact. 

It was something that he used to do when it came to girls that he fancied when he was a teenager when he used to be so fragile. He had never been this excited about meeting up with anyone in a long time. 

He had been on a few dates since he had come home from university that his mum had set up for him but they had gone nowhere. He didn’t feel even that excited to meet up with them. He didn’t feel that thrill about meeting someone new or that day one magic that he used to experience when he was younger. 

He tried to brush it off as just being excited about meeting a mate and finally breaking away from the horrendous cycle of adult life that he had fallen into since he left university just for an afternoon. He couldn’t explain why meeting up with Mycroft just felt so important to him or why writing to him had quickly become his favourite thing since he left university. 

As he walked into the house after a painfully dull day at work, Greg could hear his mum chatting away furiously on the phone. The twisted phone cord was stretched out and his mum was sitting on the stairs furiously chatting away as if it was an old friend was on the phone. He wondered if she was trying to set him with one of her friend’s daughters again. He found himself cringing when he heard her mentioning girlfriends.

She placed a hand over the receiver of the phone once she had noticed him and dropped the ‘telephone voice,’ that she used that was considerably more posh sounding than how she normally talked. “ It’s Micheal Homes who is on the phone,” she said, looking utterly thrilled that he had a friend. “One of your Cambridge friends. You should have him around for dinner sometime, he is such a lovely young man, so polite as well.”

For a moment, Greg wondered if Mycroft still would want to meet up or if he would suddenly stop writing letters after being exposed to his mother and her desire to know the life story of everyone who had come across. She was a nightmare when girls were involved and wanted to know everything, he could tell that she was practically planning the wedding in her head when she saw him chatting to a girl in town or one had phoned him. 

“Please tell me that you didn’t ask Mycroft anything embarrassing or that you weren’t asking him about girlfriends?” Greg groaned out. “You have probably scared Mycroft off.”

“Gregory, you are such a drama queen,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “I just like knowing about your friends. I was worried that you didn’t make any in university, you never go out with them and spend far too much time with your books.” 

She pressed the speaker to her ear once more and put on her telephone voice once, sounding rather like the Queen. “It has been so lovely to talk to you, Michael,” she said. “I’ll put Gregory on the phone for you now, love.”

She handed the phone back to him and made her way back to the living room. Greg waited until the television was on and the living room door was closed before he spoke, he wouldn’t put it past her to listen in to a conversation.

“ I’m so sorry about my mum,” Greg said with a sigh. “I hope that she didn’t keep you on for long. I hope that she hasn’t scared you off or decided to find you a girlfriend.” 

“I think that I put about fifty-pence in that phone call,” Mycroft replied, his voice cracked on the other side of the phone but he sounded amused. “Your mother has no hesitation to talk to strangers. She was thrilled to find out that we were in university together then suddenly got posher on the phone.”

Greg perched himself on the stairs with the phone. “She is already wanting to know when you can come over for dinner,” Greg chuckled. “I was worried that you were no longer wanting to meet up after you experienced the horror of my mum.”

“It is a contrast compared to my own mother,” Mycroft said. “ I wouldn’t let something as your mother talking to me on the phone put me off meeting up with you”

Greg let out a sigh of relief and ran a hand through his hair, he tried to ignore the odd feeling in his stomach. “I’ve been really looking forward to it. I’ve got everything organised and I bought my train ticket this afternoon.”

He could hear Mycroft rummaging around in his pocket and slip a coin into the phone, it felt like a cruel reminder that he might have to end the call soon, he didn’t know how long Mycroft would be able to keep on talking.”

“Where shall I meet you?” Greg asked.

“Trafalgar Square at one o’clock?”

“Brilliant,” Greg grinned, the odd feeling in his stomach, almost like a fluttering grew stronger and it was impossible to ignore. “I’m looking forward to it. How are you by the way?”

The confidence that Mycroft had on the phone left him. “Much better since I’m talking to you,” he murmured. “ I do apologise that I’ve not written a reply to your last letter. It was rather difficult to make out what you had written in the last bit of the letter, the tea stain made it difficult to read as well as the pen smudges.”

“Is everything alright?” Greg asked, frowning. 

“I’m just glad to be meeting up with you tomorrow,” Mycroft replied after a sigh. “How has the reading been going?”

“I had enough time to read The Hobbit when I was at work today, the place was dead,” Greg answered. “I managed to get a start on _War of the Worlds_ when I was on the bus home, it’s just been brilliant so far and I’ve really enjoyed it, Myc.”

“I’m so pleased to hear that,” Mycroft said, Greg could hear the smile in his voice. 

“I’m afraid that I need to go,” Mycroft sighed, breaking the conversation about books they were having. “Someone is needing to use the phone box.”

“Feels as if there is never enough time,” Greg sighed. “Right, Trafalgar Square, one o’clock. I’ll see you there.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” Mycroft said. Greg could practically hear the grin on his face. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Mycroft put the phone down right after and a sudden feeling of loneliness filled Greg. He put the phone back on the holder and went up to his room to figure out what he was to wear tomorrow.

* * *

Mycroft checked his watch for the seventh time in two minutes and had the feeling that time was just moving slowly just to annoy him. The time seemed to drag on as it had gotten close to one o’clock, minutes felt like hours and seconds felt impossibly long. 

He kept a close eye in the distance for Greg, squinting slightly as if that could help him see him from a distance. He tried to scold himself for the childish excitement that he felt about meeting Greg. He had hardly been able to sleep the night before and to soothe his nerves, Mycroft had made a list of conversation topics. He feared sitting in silence with Greg and had a greater fear of boring him terribly.

He had also spent far too long picking out something suitable to wear, he did not want to wear the suit that he wore to work with Greg, he did not want to risk looking pretentious and stuffy. He had picked out his best jumper for meeting up Greg and had gotten changed in the loos at work, trying his best to avoid the look of curiosity on Rudy’s face as he quickly left the office in a different set of clothes. 

He doubted that Greg would notice how the colour in the jumper brought out the colour in his eyes. He knew that people like Greg wouldn’t normally see him or even be interested in him. He had found himself getting even more caught up with this silly crush of his over the last few months and it was getting rather difficult to entangle himself in the web of feelings, he found himself getting more and more wrapped up in them as each letter from Greg came through the letterbox. 

Mycroft often scolded himself for getting attached to Greg so quickly, it would only be a matter of time until Greg would get fed up with writing to him. Mycroft found himself waiting for the day when the letters would stop, he assumed that they would stop once Greg had perhaps settled in London or he had gotten back onto speaking terms with his old friends 

He knew that Greg probably only wrote to him as he had no one else to talk to. He tried to tell himself that with each letter he received from Greg. 

  
He hoped that Greg would keep on writing to him, the letters meant more to him than he would care to admit even if Greg’s letters were often in poor condition and he had poor writing equipment. 

Mycroft tried to look out for Greg in the large group of tourists on the bottom of the street. He tried to ignore the growing anxiety that accompanied the niggle in his head that told him that Greg had changed his mind about meeting up and he had decided to play a joke on him. 

It wouldn’t have surprised him if it had happened, Mycroft had always followed the system of keeping his expectations low, it helped him avoid disappointment. It allowed him to be somewhat pleasantly surprised with whatever happened in life. It had become an odd coping mechanism since he went home for the holidays, he was positive that he would have gone mad without it. 

He had been waiting out for Greg for over half an hour by the Landseer’s lions. He had been terribly worried about being late and he did not want Greg to think that he was terribly rude if he turned up after him. Mycroft was not sure which lion was the best one to stand by and he found himself moving between the lions every few minutes to see if he could spot Greg from the dist

He had an odd feeling in his stomach as the minutes passed. Mycroft usually associated odd feelings in his stomach with something awful, he often got stomach aches from being nervous when he was younger. He had a constant case of them during the last year that his sister lived at home.

Mycroft checked his watch again for the eighth time in five minutes and moved to another lion to see if he could spot Greg from another direction. 

He wondered how he was meant to greet Greg and if handshakes were far too formal for the occasion. He did not want to appear too keen and eager like a golden retriever when he saw Greg in the fear that it would scare him off or make Greg think that he was odd. He tried to act rather aloof about meeting up with him even though the prospect of meeting up with Greg had helped him get through several awful weeks and he had been up all night with nerves and excitement. 

Mycroft decided that he would pretend to read while waiting for Greg, convinced that it would make him look more aloof and it would stop him from checking his watch every ten minutes. 

He had brought Dr Johnson’s _A Journey to the Western Isles of Scotland_ in his bag that morning. It felt almost impossible to read and to concentrate on the words but somehow he managed, he looked up from page every paragraph to try and find Greg in the crowds of people. He managed to read up to Johnson’s account of St. Andrews before he heard someone call out his name from the distance. 

He looked up from his book to see Greg frantically waving to him and shouting his name. He barely had a moment to even put down his book before Greg charged up the street to see him.

“How are you?” Mycroft asked once Greg had run up to him, slightly out of breath. 

Mycroft was somewhat unsure about what he was meant to do with his hands. He awkwardly offered his hand to Greg, unsure what was the best way to greet him. 

Without any hesitation, Greg wrapped his arms around him and embraced him as if he was an old friend. Mycroft did not know what to do with his hands and tried to copy the action. He hadn’t hugged anyone since his last visit in 1985. 

There was a strange feeling that ran through him when Greg hugged him. It almost felt the warm and comforting feeling that he got after having a large cup of tea. Having Greg’s arms around him felt much better than a large mug of tea, even better than tea and biscuits.

The hug only lasted for several moments but Mycroft felt a great loss once Greg had untangled himself from his arms. He had never experienced anything like it in the limited amount of hugs that he had experienced over the years. He found himself wanting to experience it again but unsure of how to ask. 

“Sorry about that,” Greg said shoving his hands into his pockets. “I was just that excited to see you. You don’t hug people that often do you?”

Mycroft shuffled awkwardly and held onto the strap of his bag with both hands unsure what to do with them or how to stand. “What makes you think that?” Mycroft asked in his best attempt to be aloof and if the hug hadn’t shaken the world around him. 

“It was a bit like hugging a statue,” Greg replied with a grin. “Handshakes are for business people, not mates. I’m from a family that hugs, I take it that yours isn’t?”

Mycroft nodded. “Handshake family.” 

Mycroft shuffled on his feet and suddenly wished that he knew what to do or what to say. It was always so much easier to communicate through letters, he had more of a chance to think about what he wanted to say without coming off like a total idiot. 

“Shall we get some lunch?” Greg asked after several long moments, not the slightest put off with his attempts to start a conversation that ended almost immediately as the words left his mouth. 

  
Mycroft nodded enthusiastically, relieved that Greg had decided what they should do. “Tea would be lovely,” he said. “I’m desperate for tea.”

* * *

“So how have things been?” Greg asked as he poured in five packets of sugar into his mug of black coffee. “I’ve talked about myself long enough and I’m sure that you don’t want to hear me going on about the customers at work or anything boring.”

Mycroft thought for a long moment before he shrugged, he wished that he made a longer list of conversation topics. He had spent hours crafting a list of conversation topics to avoid talking about himself in fear of boring Greg to pieces. Mycroft had hoped that Greg would just want to talk about books, he felt like they were the only thing that he was capable of talking about. He had been somewhat disappointed when Greg changed the subject rudely interrupting the wonderful conversation about Macbeth they were having. 

“So have you been doing anything with your holidays?” Greg attempted after a few moments. “How is the Russian going?” 

Mycroft looked up from the sugar packets that he had been arranging, it bothered him greatly that the brown sugar and the artificial sweetener packets had been thrown into the sugar bowl without care. 

“The Russian has been interesting …” Mycroft managed to utter. “The grammar structure is fascinating.” 

He silently cursed under his breath and wished that he was more socially capable, he doubted that ordinary people struggled this much in conversation. He wished that he was as interesting as Greg.

Greg nodded thoughtfully for a moment as he stirred his coffee. “So are you looking forward to going back to university? Any big plans?”

“I’m looking forward to going to lectures, not so much the social aspect,” Mycroft said. 

He looked up from the sugar bowl and sighed to himself. “I am terribly sorry,” he said. 

“What are you sorry for?” Greg asked, confusion painted on his features. 

“I am terrible at this,” Mycroft said, “I’m really not good at talking to people.”

“You were able to talk about books just fine and you were able to ask me a million questions about my life,” Greg replied, he almost seemed rather amused despite how flustered he was getting. “What makes you think that you can’t talk to people? You were doing a fine job before I started to ask questions.”

Mycroft forced himself to stop arranging the sugar packets and pushed the bowl away from himself. He wanted nothing more than the ground to swallow him up, he knew that Greg wouldn’t be interested in talking to him again after this afternoon. “I’m not as interesting as you are,” he murmured. “There is nothing remotely interesting about me and I had to plan conversation topics for today. I made a list of them to avoid talking about myself.”

“You’ve got a list of conversation topics?” Greg asked. “If you do that for me, do you have a whole book of them for when you are on a date? Let’s see them, I won’t make fun of you.”

He regretted being honest for a moment and with great reluctance, he pulled out the sheet of conversation topics that he had prepared and handed it to Greg. He briefly considered leaving the cafe and never returning or writing to Greg again with the amount of embarrassment he felt. 

“It’s admittedly rather strange,” Mycroft murmured. “I do hope that you will not think that I’m too odd. I’m just so much better at writing letters than speaking.”

It was the first time that he had been rather concerned about appearing strange to someone, he normally never bothered or cared what others thought. He knew that people found him strange, he had always thought it was because they were uncomfortable with his intelligence or he could tell everything about them with one look. He felt uncomfortable as he struggled to deduce Greg, it had been the first time that he had struggled to do that. 

Greg spent a long moment reading his list of conversation starters, he almost looked rather amused by them. He read several of them out and laughed occasionally. “How many chickens would it take to kill an elephant?” he laughed. “Where did you get that from?”

“One of my brother’s magazines,” Mycroft reluctantly admitted. “I thought that it would be an amusing one and I was not sure if I should try to be funny or not. I was not wanting to bore you.”

“You know that you don't have to try so hard?” Greg said, pointing his spoon in his direction. “I do like you already. I know that you are a bit shit at this kind of thing.”

Mycroft blinked and wondered if Greg had gone mad. It had to explain why Greg seemed rather amused about talking to him and his lack of social abilities, and why he hadn’t run away from the cafe.

“Why don’t I ask you a few of the questions from the list?” Greg suggested. “I know that you aren’t as boring as you think you are. I don’t even know why you get that idea in your head, I do actually want to get to know you, Myc.” 

Mycroft nodded and sipped at his tea, it didn’t give him the same warm feeling that Greg’s hug gave him. “I want more than just a yes or no for an answer,” Greg said with an encouraging smile. “I do find you interesting, I know that you don’t believe me.” 

“Do you have any hobbies?” Greg asked after a long moment. “And to add onto the conversation, is there anything that you would like to do? Or a society you might like to join in university?” 

Mycroft thought for a long moment, he wasn’t too sure if studying could count as a hobby. It was the only thing that he really did other than reading books and learn languages. He did have some suitable interests that mummy had picked out for him such as the piano and he did fence occasionally. He did neglect most of his interests in his early teenage years when the burden of becoming the eldest fell upon him and he had to step in as a grown-up. 

“I enjoy cycling,” he said after a long moment. It was often the only time that he got to himself when he was home. It was a necessity due to the lack of buses and he cared little for driving, it was something that he did enjoy and it allowed him to be alone with his thoughts. “ I do like classic films and the theatre...I did want to join the drama society but my family wouldn’t approve,” Mycroft added after several moments. 

“Why wouldn’t your family want you to join drama society?” Greg asked. “Are they a bit old fashioned and think that men don’t belong in the theatre? I don’t think that all male actors are...you know? I always thought that it was stupid that people make a big deal out of things like that, especially with that section number...whatever it was.” 

Mycroft opened up his mouth and closed it again, he quickly shook his head. “They much prefer me to study at university instead of wasting time on frivolous things such as drama society and making friends.” 

“So am I your secret friend then?” Greg asked with a raised eyebrow. “You are like twenty? You can tell your family to bugger off and do what you want.”

“It is a lot easier said than done,” Mycroft said with a sigh. “My family is just wanting me to succeed in life, I can’t really risk getting distracted.” 

Mycroft sighed and crumbled his scone into tiny pieces on his plate. “This is why I do not talk about myself, I make everyone miserable or bored.”

“So why can’t you just join drama society in secret then?” Greg asked after a long moment. “They are not exactly going to find out if you don’t tell them. I didn’t tell my mum how many times I went to a lecture hungover or if I was on a date with someone without telling her, she would have been on my back.”

Mycroft looked at him for a long moment and shook his head, it felt far too simple for his liking. 

“It's drama society, it’s not like you are involved in a gang or spy work. It’s not going to bother or put them in danger if you don’t tell them” Greg said as if it was the most simple thing in the world. “Any idea what drama society is doing for the semester?”

“The Importance of Being Earnest,” Mycroft said. 

Greg reached over the table and clapped him on the shoulder. “You should go for it,” he encouraged. “It is my favourite show and I think that you would be brilliant. You’ll have to give me a ticket.” 

Mycroft straightened up and with a nervous sip of his tea nodded. “Alright then, I should,” he said, rather convinced that it was the boldest thing that he had ever done in his life, only slightly more rebellious than having Greg as his friend.

* * *

They walked without a purpose around London after they had spent far too much money in the wonderful book shops in Covent Garden. Mycroft had taken him to a posh stationery shop and bought him an expensive pen that Greg worried about losing, he had the habit of misplacing them. Greg had little idea about where they were meant to be going and he had the feeling that neither did Mycroft. He had the odd feeling that they were lost at one point but Mycroft had denied it furiously. 

It didn’t matter if they were lost, Greg found himself more than happy to keep on walking. He would point to a building or something particularly interesting and Mycroft was more than thrilled to talk about the history of the seventeenth-century coffee house or a tidbit about one of the old Kings and Queens, and any question that Greg came up with. He wasn’t sure if he did need to know the history of the Beggar's Opera or what was Mycroft’s favourite Hogarth engraving, Greg had assumed that it was nervous chatter, but he was more than thrilled to listen to anything that Mycroft had to say. 

“Are you sure that you don’t have an encyclopedia with you?” Greg asked once Mycroft had given him a brief history about the Sublime Society of Beef Steaks once they had passed the Royal Opera House. “How do you know all of this information?”

“I read,” Mycroft said with a shrug as if it was perfectly ordinary to have a vast knowledge of eighteenth-century London clubs and societies. “I do hope that I am not boring you to pieces. 

“I think that you are the most interesting person that I’ve ever met,” Greg said with a grin, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I don’t even know why you were so worried about being boring.”

Mycroft’s ears went pink. When Greg attempted to ask if he was alright, Mycroft was quick to assure him that it was the heat even if he did stumble on his words several times. 

It was not the first time that Greg heard that excuse from Mycroft, he seemed to get rather flustered whenever Greg complimented him. He had the niggling feeling that Mycroft was not often complimented with how he reacted.

“What is a fact that you can give me about St. James Park?” Greg asked, sitting on an empty bench by the duck pond. “You must have something.”

Mycroft sat on the bench next to him and felt so impossibly close, his bag was the only thing that separated them. Greg could practically see the gears turn in his head. 

“The pelicans in the park were a gift to King Charles the second from a Russian ambassador in 1664,” Mycroft eventually said. “The pelicans that are in the park are meant to be descendants of those original ones.”

Greg nodded and leaned back into the bench. “You really do learn something new every day,” he said with a grin. “I just wonder what I will learn when I next see you.”

Mycroft nodded and placed his hands on his lap, staring to the distance. “I do you mind if I ask you a question?” Mycroft asked, not looking at him. 

“What is it?” 

“What is life outside university like?” Mycroft asked quietly. “It must be nice to have all that freedom to do what you want with your life.” 

Greg opened up his mouth and closed it again unable to answer. He sighed and ran through his hair as if it could help him think of an answer. He wasn’t too sure how honest he was allowed to be in the early stages of friendship. He had tried to keep his letters light and positive for Mycroft, he had little desire to come off as being miserable when Mycroft seemed to be having a hard time during the holidays. 

“Slightly shit,” he said eventually. 

Mycroft turned to look at him with a raised eyebrow at his choice of words, the look reminded him of the one that his mum gave him when he swore. 

“You went to Cambridge to study English and you read extensively,” Mycroft said in a tone of disbelief, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly, “ and all you can come up with is ‘slightly shit.”

“What is the point in using more words than needed? As Wilde said ‘Brevity is the soul of wit, ” Greg shrugged. “What about you? How are your holidays going, honestly? You sound blooming miserable in some of those letters of yours, I can’t blame you for being so.”

“In the words that you used, ‘slightly shit,” he said eventually with a sigh. 

“Is that all you can come up with?” Greg asked with a raised eyebrow. “You study at Cambridge and you spent half an hour comparing Virgil against Homer in a bookshop, and all you can say is ‘slightly shit,’ I honestly expected more from you.”

The chuckle that Mycroft let out was infectious, the undignified snort he let out was somewhat endearing. 

“Are you really that unhappy?” Greg eventually asked, breaking the comfortable silence between them. 

Mycroft shook his head and placed hands on his lap. “I’m happy-ish at times, mostly when I get a letter from you. I suppose that no one really enjoys going back home after university.”

“Happy-ish?” Greg asked with a chuckle. “Is that even a word?”

He understood what Mycroft meant, being happy-ish was the most that he could hope for at times. It seemed more possible to clutch as those small shards of happiness each day than actually experience true joy these days. Greg reckoned that being with Mycroft was probably the happiest he had been in months. 

“I doubt it,” Mycroft said with a sigh. “I am dreading going back on that train and having to deal with reality again. This has been such a wonderful escape from the real world even if it was just for an afternoon. I had been looking forward to seeing you all week. There won’t be anything to look forward to after today, not for a long time at least.”

Greg let out a noise of agreement. Each time he had looked at the clock there was a niggling sense of disappointment that washed over him. “We’ll be fine though,” he said. 'I would like to want to see you again, you can give me another extensive tour of London. This has been such a great escape from reality. It doesn’t matter how terrible reality is or what happens tomorrow, we had today; I’ll always remember it.”

Mycroft let out a shy smile and turned to look at him. “So what are the big plans then? Has London inspired you? Do you know what you want to do with your life? ”

Greg shrugged and stood up, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I’ll figure something out.”

He had never really paid much attention to that question when he had been asked. He had been asked so many times since he was six. He had teachers ask him what he was doing in secondary school. He had been asked around the dinner table by his dad countless times when he was in university after having another one of their rows about him spending too much time with his head in his books. He had been asked about it countless times in the last year of university often at three in the morning by his classmates when they were out smoking or were considerably drunk. He had never known the answer, knowing what he wanted to do in life felt far too distant for him. 

“Happy, I guess”, Greg said after several moments of deep thought. “What about you?” 

“I'll have an office job lined up for me once I leave university,” Mycroft commented quietly, looking down at his shoes. “My family would disapprove if I wanted to do anything else. I have family responsibilities as well.”

  
“What would you want to be if you could choose then?” Greg asked. 

“A writer,” Mycroft offered reluctantly.

“Why don’t you go away and write something then?” Greg said. "Pack your things away once you leave university and go away to another country or the woods in a cabin. That's what Thoreau did with Walden. You do that and just write something."

  
“I’m not very good at writing,” Mycroft replied. “There is little point in doing something that I’m not good at.” 

“Learn to get good at writing then,” said Greg. “Nothing is stopping you.”

“You make it sound simpler than it actually is,” Mycroft protested. “You know that so many writers live in poverty and are not successful or only achieve success when they die.”

“Learn to get good at writing before you die then,” Greg shrugged. 

Mycroft thought carefully for a long moment before he spoke. “Do you want to get some chips?” he asked. “I’ll pay.” 

* * *

Mycroft tried his best not to roll his eyes at the young woman behind the counter, who made little effort to pretend that she was not looking at Greg. She had attempted to flirt with Greg when she brought over the chips to the table. Mycroft noticed that she had put on a fresh coat of lipstick in the time between Mycroft ordering the chips and them being brought to the table. 

Mycroft could hardly blame her for wanting to look at Greg. He had done the same so often at university but Mycroft liked to believe that he had been more discreet about it, he at least pretended to read when he caught a glimpse of Greg in the library or the communal kitchen. He doubted that Greg would have noticed him looking until recently he was invisible to Greg. 

Mycroft tried to keep the smug look off his face when Greg did not respond to any of the woman's attempts at flirting. Greg was enthusiastically talking about Oscar Wilde as if he was an old friend. He had done the same with Shakesphere with how passionately he spoke about him. It was simply the most endearing thing especially with the smile on his face and how quoted from the books that he adored, particularly if they were to do with fate and love. 

It was enough to make anyone’s knees go weak. Mycroft was thankful that he was sitting down or he would have made a right fool of himself. It had taken him all of his strength to not visibly swoon over the table at Greg. 

  
“What do you think about that?” Greg asked. “It is one of my favourite quotes from Wilde. I would have loved to be at a dinner party with him or even talk to him for five minutes.”

Mycroft was dragged out of his thoughts, he had managed to get terribly lost and distracted once Greg had started to quote Shelley’s _Love’s Philosophy_ from the book that he had bought in the shop. 

“Could you repeat it again?” Mycroft asked, sounding considerably more put together than he felt. He placed a hand on his cheek and cringed at the heat that radiated from them. 

_“I had a strange feeling that fate had in store for me exquisite joys and exquisite sorrows,”_ Greg read out from his copy of Dorian Gray. “It is just fantastic really. It is almost reassuring in a way, knowing that there is some good and happiness in the world that is guaranteed to make its way to you. Do you not think so?”

Mycroft stabbed his chip with his wooden fork. He had the odd feeling that his family's plans would be the only force that could avoid fate. “I have never really believed in fate,” Mycroft said. “If it did exist, I’m positive that it would only provide misfortune for me.”

Greg popped a chip into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “What makes you think that?”

“When one is put into the universe with a nose like what I have and a younger brother who likes to do ‘experiments,’ one can only assume that fate has not and most definitely will not be kind to them,” he said dryly. 

Mycroft felt a surge of pride run through him as Greg chuckled loudly. He hadn’t been able to make anyone laugh in years. He briefly considered telling Greg his joke about Shakesphere and the chicken, Sherlock found it hilarious when he was nine.

“Your nose isn’t that awful,” Greg said, laughter still in his voice. “I think that it makes you look rather distinguished.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “If that is your attempt at flirting, no wonder your mother is trying to find you a girlfriend. Have you had any luck?”

He tried his best to not sound too interested in the matter. Mycroft had tried his best not to be too invested in Greg although it was a losing battle. He knew that he had a snowflake's chance in hell for Greg to like men. There was an even smaller one for Greg to fancy someone like him. It was almost a miracle that Greg wanted to be his friend especially as he was invisible to Greg for so long. 

Greg shook his head and attempted to stack his chips into a tower. “I rather leave it up to fate to find someone,” he said. “Fate will put me and the right person in the same place together when the time is right and it’s bound to work out.”

Mycroft snorted. “I do wish that I lived on the same planet as you.”

“It does make it easier to live on when you believe in things such as fate,” Greg shrugged. “I think that fate helps make the world easier to deal with. It does guarantee that you do get some happiness in your life and makes people live. Most people exist without fate.”

“What are you expecting fate to bring you then?” Mycroft asked with a raised eyebrow. 

“Happiness of some sort,” Greg said. “Hopefully a good life with someone, the right person. A marriage like my parents, and a good job, whatever it takes to be happy.”

“Do you honestly believe that fate will find you ‘the right person?’” Mycroft asked. “Fate is not a dating service that helps you find someone.”

“Then why do people write about it then?” Greg replied. “Romeo and Juliet had fate bring them together.”

“Fate also decided that they were going to die,” Mycroft said. “I do hope that you will not blindly follow fate like that.”

“I won’t.” 

“How are you not going to do that?” 

“I wouldn’t do everything that fate told me to do, ” Greg answered with a shrug. “If fate told me that I was going to die, I’d tell fate to fuck off.”

Mycroft let out an undignified snort and spluttered on the Coke that he was drinking. He apologised as Greg banged him on the back. He decided that possibly drinking liquids around Greg was not his best idea, Greg had the awful tenancy to make him laugh. 

“What if fate doesn’t find you that person you are meant to be with ?” Mycroft asked once he had recovered from inhaling his diet coke, mopping up the table with his napkin.

“I don’t think that it just applies to love. I think that fate helps you find the people who you are meant to be within life,” said Greg with a smile. “It puts you where you are meant to be and it helps you find those people.”

Mycroft chewed on his chip thoughtfully, he had to admire Greg’s optimism about the world even if it did sound utterly ridiculous.

“I think in an odd way that it was fate that helped us meet,” Greg said after a few moments. “I’m just rather sad that I didn’t do so sooner.”

“I doubt that it was fate,” Mycroft replied. “We happened to be outside at the same time because of an awful party. It was merely a coincidence that we were outside at the same time. The universe is so rarely lazy to allow fate to control it.”

“It was fate that brought the two of us outside then,” Greg said. “Fate doesn’t always work in the way that you think it does. It does half of the job. It puts you in the situation and you have to do the rest yourself.”

Mycroft almost wanted to believe Greg, his childish belief and positivity in fate was endearing. He had never had the abilities to believe in such things even as a child and was practically born middle-aged and with a thick layer of cobwebs in his soul.

“If only I had known you in uni,” Greg said wistfully. “I think that I might have enjoyed it more. I can’t believe that we lived on the same floor and I had never noticed or spoken to you before.”

“You would not have noticed me. You had your friends and a girlfriend at the time, ” Mycroft murmured, stabbing a chip with his fork. “I do blend in rather well and I live my life in a constant state of invisibility.”

“I see you,” Greg said simply. “I just wish that I had done so sooner. I’m glad that fate brought us together, Myc.” 

Mycroft put down his wooden fork and swallowed hard. He had the feeling as if a jolt of electricity had run through him and left an odd feeling in his heart. He suddenly found himself more agreeable and allowed himself to get caught up in the silly belief of fate when it came to Greg. 

“I am so very glad as well,” Mycroft said with a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for everyone who has been reading! It has been such a fun chapter to write, mostly with the research that I did for this chapter. I was just amazed to learn about the pelicans in St. James Park. The Sublime Society of Beef Steaks was a real eighteenth-century society, where men would wear uniforms, eat steak and sing songs. Dr Samuel Johnson, Hogarth, and The Prince of Wales (he later King George IV) were members of the society. 
> 
> I also want to say a thank you to Johnwatsonblog who has essentially written half of this chapter for me with their wonderful ideas and has been a lovely writing companion.


	5. October 1988- Novels and Drama Society

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Mycroft found himself drinking more tea after meeting up with Greg in London. It was the warm and somewhat comforting feeling that settled in his chest that Mycroft had tried to replicate with each mug that he made.'

_ October 1988 _

Mycroft found himself drinking more tea after meeting up with Greg in London. It was the warm and somewhat comforting feeling that settled in his chest that Mycroft had tried to replicate with each mug that he made. 

He never had that much success when it came to tea. The feeling of warmth that came with every sip would only last a moment before it quickly faded no matter how quickly he drank the tea. The comforting feeling that he used to get from tea felt considerably weak compared to a hug from Greg. He had experimented with hot chocolate and had little success. The mug of Horlicks that he had before bed was only marginally better, the feeling lingered in his middle for several moments before it left him but felt rather half-hearted compared to a hug from Greg. 

The world felt somewhat dull after meeting up with Greg. His life was dull before and would continue to be extraordinary drab as he got older, but for those few precious hours, things felt rather vibrant even if London was an extraordinary grey city. 

He felt free and unbound from the responsibilities of being the eldest, disapproving family, and the growing amount of paperwork in the office. For those hours with Greg, Mycroft felt rather ordinary and enjoyed it considerably, even if it was playing pretend. 

For the first time in his life, Mycroft as if someone saw him for the first time instead of looking right through him. It was the first time that someone wanted to hear what he wanted to say and cared about his thoughts. 

Greg did not even tease him when he mentioned his silly desire to be a writer or got to drama society.

Once he had parted ways with Greg, Mycroft felt a loneliness that he had never experienced before. It only seemed to grow during the rest of the summer and when he eventually when back to Cambridge. 

The only thing that seemed to temporarily aid his problem was to drink tea. 

Mycroft stared at his empty page and closed the lid of his pen with a sigh. 

He had hoped to write that evening after his afternoon lecture after being somewhat inspired by the material that he had to read in preparation. He had even bought himself a brand new notebook and pen to motivate himself to write. 

He had tried to write for a total of ten minutes and had already stumbled across the first hurdle of writer’s block when he could not think of a good first sentence of his masterpiece. 

He had tried to write the first line several times and had removed five pages out of his brand new notebook after they were not to his standard. He doubted that Dickens or Wilde had ever struggled with writing, he supposed that it came as natural to them as breathing and he felt somewhat envious of them. 

He did briefly consider taking something stronger than tea to see if it helped his creative process and he would be able to create a masterpiece such as Kubla Khan. Mycroft shook his head at the suggestion and allowed himself to eat another biscuit instead, a much tamper source of inspiration than opium, 

Mycroft chewed at his biscuit thoughtfully and tried to force the first line of his story to burst into his head. He gave up his efforts after thirty seconds and decided that writing was a lost cause. It was very clear that he was not very good at it. 

He had hoped that he would be able to write a masterpiece with great ease, he had an unhappy childhood and family life that most writers had and he had hoped that it would at least help him write one book. 

He did wonder if Uncle Rudy’s harsh criticism of his draft was meant to be a kindness in some form, a heavy hint that he should not attempt to write and embarrass himself any further in his pursuit. It had been a struggle to write after that and it had removed the last lingering strains of creativity that Mycroft somehow managed to hold onto.

Greg had been encouraging in his letters and had told him many times that he should just write and not think too much about it. It was easier said than done. It felt impossible to ‘just write,’ he had tried to do so many times and never had any success. 

He could hardly understand why Greg had such faith in his writing abilities, each letter was filled with encouragement for him to write or silly ideas that Greg had conjured up with when he was at work or when he was on the bus. 

It was through his suggestions, Mycroft had realised that Greg had the potential to be a good writer. He was certainly more creative than Mycroft could ever be and it was through those suggestions, he had discovered that he was as creative as cardboard. Greg had rather outlandish ideas at times, the story idea about Queen Victoria being an alien was questionable but none of the less amusing. 

He had suggested to Greg that he should put his degree to use and become a writer. Mycroft unquestionably believed that Greg would be utterly brilliant at doing so. Greg saw the world much differently than Mycroft had ever allowed himself to do so, he saw between the black and white and believed in silly notions such as fate. 

It would have been completely ridiculous in any other situation, but with Greg, it was endearing. 

Greg had never took him up on his suggestions that he should write, he had little desire to do so apparently. He always used the same quote (somewhat paraphrased), from  _ Dorian Gray _ each time that Mycroft had suggested to him that he become an author.

_ ‘I am too fond of reading books than care to write them.’ _

Mycroft found the quote somewhat inspirational. It made him want to write something that Greg would like to read, a book that Greg would adore.

He just had to get past the hurdle of writing a brilliant opening line first...

* * *

The World's Wobbliest Kitchen Table

Chelmsford,

15th of October.

_ Dear Mycroft,  _

_ I’m sorry for taking some time to write back to you. I’ve been so busy at work in the attempt to build up my funds for London that I barely have time to sit down to write. I do hope that you don’t think that I’ve forgotten about you or get fed up of writing to you.  _

_ I don’t think that I could ever get bored of writing to you, you are one of the most interesting people that I’ve ever met. Actually, the most interesting person and you make everyone look completely dull in comparison. I know that I’ve not known you that long, but I’m convinced that you are one of the best people that I’ve ever met and you are one of my favourite people.  _

_ I do apologise for being somewhat sappy, I’ve had a few pints in me. I’m currently writing this at three in the morning with a curry and I’ve stupidly smeared korma on the top of the page. I hope that you don’t mind too much, I know that you like to moan about the condition of my letters and my handwriting.  _

_ I was at the pub on an awful date that my mum set up for me. I don’t know if mum is trying to get rid of me or something. If she is not pestering me about dates or girlfriends, she is nagging about me going into teacher training or doing something fancy with my degree. I’ve tried to tell her that I’m not interested or that I want to do things my way but she never listens to me.  _

_ We’ve also had this massive row about me going to London. Mum is not happy about me going away in the slightest and wants me to stay home. I’ve tried to tell her that I hate it here so many times over the years, there is nothing to do, I’ve got no mates here, and there’s hardly any decent jobs around. I’m not wanting to be stuck in this same place for the rest of my life, I don’t even fit in anymore. I almost feel as if I’m trying to force myself to fit into a very small box to keep everyone happy.  _

_ Dad isn’t that bothered about me going to London, I think that he is happy that I’m wanting to go away. He didn’t start screaming at me or planning my funeral when I mentioned that I fancied joining the police. Susie is the only one that is really alright with me going to London, it means that she has someplace to stay when she is in London for the clubs and she can use my bedroom as a walk-in wardrobe for herself.  _

_ I’m sorry for moaning a lot in this letter, I’ll make sure to be a lot more cheerful in the next one. I don’t have anyone to talk to about this sort of thing and if I try to talk to anyone, they ignore me or just nag all the time. They never listen to what I have to say and mum is basically deciding what I’m doing with my life. I can’t really listen to her or fight back, she is my mum and I’d hate to upset her.  _

_ I think that you are the only person I can actually talk to at times.  _

_ Once again, I’m sorry for being so sappy. I hope that you will actually write back to me after reading this.  _

_ How is your dissertation coming along? I do hope that you are managing alright with all of the work. I’m just so thankful that I will never have to do a dissertation or write an essay ever again, and I don’t envy you one bit. You do miss the essays a bit, they were a distraction from the world and it was nice to have something to focus on all the time.  _

_ Have you had any luck with the writing? You haven’t mentioned it for a bit in your last few letters. My offer about reading over your work or helping any way that I can is still standing. I think that you’ll be able to write something amazing eventually. _

_ I’m expecting this masterpiece to be dedicated to me.  _

_ Also good luck with your audition! You need to let me know how that goes, I’ll be thrilled to see you on the stage. You’ll be amazing!  _

_ I do hope that you write back soon. I really hope that I can see you again soon, you seem to be the only person who actually listens to me and who I can talk to. _

_ Greg.  _

_ P.s. You don’t need to call me Gregory when you write, I only get called my full name by mum when she is giving me a row.  _

* * *

Mycroft sat in the back of the auditorium and pretended to read the extract of the script that he had been given. He hardly needed to read it, he practically knew the whole play by heart after reading it so many times and the 1952 film was a favourite of his. 

As the other students auditioned the play, Mycroft put some serious thought about missing the audition and going back to his room out of fear of making a total fool of himself on stage. He felt tempted to fib and tell Greg in his letter that all the available parts were gone or he could not fit in rehearsals with a busy university schedule. 

Mycroft quickly removed that thought from his mind. The thought of lying to Greg distressed him greatly. He had never liked lying and he knew from past experience that it was difficult to get out of the web of lies after being caught in one, no matter how small it was and if it was created with good intentions.

He knew that he would have to go through the audition and get over and done with it, no matter how much embarrassment he caused himself. He sighed as he was summoned to the stage, and forced himself from his spot in the back of the auditorium. It was at that moment that Mycroft wondered why he was auditioning for a play to impress Greg, it felt almost desperate to get him to like him especially when he had a snowflakes chance in hell. 

He knew that he would have to stop doing silly things to impress Greg, he would get himself into trouble one day or at least make a complete and utter fool of himself. 

“Do you fancy trying out for Lady Bracknell?” The director asked, a student who was in Mycroft’s history tutorials. “We’ve not had anyone audition for that part.”

Mycroft opened his mouth to protest and closed it again, knowing that it would only draw out the audition for longer and caused more embarrassment than he desired. He wanted nothing more than to get it out of the way and he could go back to his room and write a reply to Greg’s letter. 

He found himself as surprised as the other students in the audience when his half-hearted interpretation of Lady Bracknell resulted in laugher, not because he was doing awfully or they were mocking him, but because he was actually funny. He knew that some of the students in the audience were probably rather shocked to see him with his head away from his books and it was probably the first time that they heard him talk.

_ Perhaps all of those silly games of dress-up with Sherlock had some value _ , Mycroft thought to himself after he was given a round of applause at the end of his audition. He found himself pleasantly surprised about how much he enjoyed being on the stage or that he was invited to go to the pub by the other students. 

He decided to go in order to have something to write about in his letter to Greg. He sat quietly at the table and listened to the other student’s banter, discussion about sports and girlfriends that he did not care for, occasionally making an appropriate comment or observation. He found himself rather enjoying the experience even if he was bored or did not know what to say at times, it was rather enjoyable to be in a part of a group instead of watching one from the sidelines.

* * *

_ Cambridge University Library. _

_ 22nd of October _

_ Dear Greg, _

_ I will start this letter off on a positive note and let you know that my audition went rather well. I have managed to get the role of Lady Bracknell for the show, I was hoping for something that was more distinguished and better suited for myself, but I am pleased that I did not embarrass myself on stage. However, it will be a different story when I am in costume and you are potentially in the audience. I am not sure if I will take on the role, it is not too late to change my mind, rehearsals have not started yet.  _

_ I have never received a letter that was written by someone drunk and it was an experience to read. Your handwriting was a bit of a challenge to read at times, the spelling was somewhat more awful than usual, and the content was questionable. I did end up feeling rather flattered by your letter regardless. I have never been thought of as being interesting or have been someone’s favourite person before.  _

_ I do not have friends, I just really have the one. I find most people to be boring, you are the opposite for me. I believe that this makes you my favourite person, (other than my brother, who is reluctantly given that title), by default.  _

  
  


_ I have written that under the influence of alcohol, I had been invited to the pub by the other students in drama society and I had a ‘pint,’ bought for me. I do not know how you can drink beer, it is absolutely vulgar. I did make myself drink it, I do not want to appear rude, even if I do not care for the talk about football or other sports.  _

_ I do apologise for having such an awful time with your date. Was there anything in particular that went wrong with this one? Did she keep going on about her cats like what she did for the last one? Or did you not have anything to talk about  _

_ You don’t seem to be having much luck with them recently, perhaps you should not allow your mother to pick out girlfriends for you? The only benefit that comes from those awful dates is when you phone to complain about them, even if it is the early hours of the morning and you’ve been drinking. I would suggest that you should be focusing more on other pursuits. I am sure that you would be able to write about this, I think that you would be able to make a fantastic script out of this. I know that you said that you do not have the urge to write books but have you considered writing scripts? _

_ Admittedly after hearing your misfortunes with these dates makes me far too thankful that I do not bother with such nonsense. I much prefer the company of a good book and a mug of tea and value a good friend more than I could ever do with a girlfriend. I have never had the urge to have one and after hearing your stories about your old girlfriends, it has made me thankful that I do not bother.  _

_ I do apologise for a rather short letter. I feel that you might benefit from talking about your problem in person rather than through a letter. I am just really wanting any excuse to see you again, I have to be perfectly honest. I hope that you do not mind too much.  _

_ I was meant to be going home next weekend but there has been a change of plans, I do not care to talk about it, but I was wondering if you would like to meet up? If you are busy with work or another date, I do understand.  _

_ Phone when you can and we can arrange something, _

_ All the best,  _

_ Mycroft Holmes. _

* * *

Mycroft changed his coat three times and fiddled with his hair eight times in the attempt to get it to lie flat before he left his room. He hardly had the reason to be nervous, he was going to London with Greg for the evening. 

He believed that the nerves were because it was a spontaneous meeting with Greg that was only arranged that afternoon over the telephone. Mycroft had never cared much for spontaneity and believed that it, next to lack of organisation, was the cause of disaster. 

He had little idea why he had even accepted Greg’s invitation to go out to a club, he had never been to a club before and he did not dance or had any desire to. Greg had been somewhat thrilled that he had discovered the world of the pub and had been meeting up with the drama society after rehearsals. 

Mycroft had tried to tell Greg countless times that he did not care much for the pub and he was often bored when he visited with the drama society, but he did not have the heart to stop Greg as he enthusiastically chattered on about the pubs and clubs that had been to, and which ones had the best music. 

He had the feeling that Greg was really needing an evening to forget his problems, and Mycroft knew that as Greg’s friend, it was his duty to go with him and make sure that he was alright, even if he had to possibly dance and be in a club that was full of drunken goldish. 

He knew that his father and Rudy would be somewhat furious with him and his mother disappointed if they found out that he went to London on a Saturday night instead of studying. He knew that ordinary people would not even think twice about going to a night club or cared about what their families thought about it. 

It felt far too much like rebelling for Mycroft’s liking. It was rather thrilling if he had to be perfectly honest. He had been somewhat more rebellious of late, he could hardly consider himself to be a suitable role model for his younger brother these days when he was going to clubs in London, joining drama society, or attempting to write stories. 

It was rather exhilarating to allow himself to act somewhat rebellious, especially as he knew that he would not get many chances or have the freedom to enjoy life and pretend to be ordinary. He knew that the chances that had were limited and Mycroft wanted to grab the few that he could with both hands.

Mycroft patted his hair down once more and left student accommodation, determined to have a good time in a night club with Greg even if it involved dancing.


	6. October 1988 - Promises.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "She apologised for taking his first kiss away from him. She told him that it should have been kept for someone special, someone who he really cared about. She made him promise in between the clouds of horrid smelling tobacco, that the next person who he kissed had to be someone special. That he should not give away a kiss to someone who was not worth it or did not care for him that much.
> 
> It was one of the few promises that Mycroft kept close to his heart, unable to let it go for some reason."

_October 1988._

Mycroft could not see the appeal in clubs, no matter how much he tried. The music was louder than it needed to be and it made Mycroft dislike the songs that he normally enjoyed. He watched with a look of mild horror and curiosity on his face from where he was sat the bar as he watched people stumble around the floor drunk. He compared their attempts of dancing like drunken giraffes with a missing leg.

Greg’s dancing was only marginally better but in comparison to everyone else, he was the best dancer in the room. Greg had tried to encourage him to go up to the dance floor several times, but Mycroft had refused each time. He had only one drink before he switched to soda water and lime in the attempt to be sensible and in control of himself. He hardly wanted to do anything questionable such as go back to Cambridge with a tattoo or wake up to find a stranger in his room.

Mycroft ordered himself another soda water and checked his watch once more. He had little desire to be here in the club and had only agreed to come along as he would be able to spend time with Greg. He did not expect to be left on his own by the bar after fifteen minutes as Greg had gotten invited to dance by some woman called Ingrid, a tall, redheaded woman with an expensive-looking asymmetrical haircut.

Mycroft tried to ignore the feeling of abandonment and the nagging realisation that he would have to get over his silly infatuation for Greg. It was becoming more and more clear each time that they met up, that Greg would never be interested in him that way, no matter how long Mycroft had allowed a lingering sense of hope to surround him.

“Are you not having a good time?” Greg asked as he had approached the bar, thankfully without a woman by his side. He had come to the bar two times before with a woman that he thought that Mycroft would have wanted to dance with or was interested in with little success.

Greg leaned in close to him so he could hear him better. He almost ended up on his lap as someone shoved past him in their eagerness to go to the dance floor once the Human League was playing.

Mycroft swallowed hard and reluctantly shifted away from Greg, the combination of his aftershave and his cigarettes was surprisingly appealing. “Not really,” he said.

“Fancy another drink before we go?” Greg asked. “We can go somewhere else if you aren’t having a good time. It’s always a bit rubbish when there are not any girls that you fancy. It’s a shame that you didn’t want to dance with Claire, you would have gotten on brilliantly.”

 _My evening has been terrible as I have had to watch you dance with other women and have your face eaten by Ingrid_ , Mycroft thought to himself. “I am probably just rather stressed with coursework to enjoy myself or dance,” he lied smoothly.

Greg nodded, he looked somewhat unconvinced about what he had just said. “Are you sure that there are no girls that you like here? I can help you find someone in the next bar if you want. I can chat them up for you. You are just too shy to approach them, aren’t you?

Mycroft tried to his best not to roll his eyes with great difficultly. He had little intention or urge to approach a lady for a dance, he never had. He had reluctantly participated in country dancing with the all-girls school next to his own school. He had been paired up with the most suitable of the girls Antonia Faber, the most intelligent girl in her class. She was rather pretty in Mycroft’s eyes even if her hair was somewhat frizzy and her nose had been broken several times because of netball. She disliked dancing as much as he did and the two of them would talk about the books they were reading and what films they liked as they danced throughout the school term. In another world, Mycroft liked to think that she would be a suitable match for him. He almost considered her to be a friend and he had written to her several times before they had lost touch when they left for university.

He kissed Antonia when he was fifteen by the bike sheds. Antonia was the one who kissed him first and he had stood there in surprise for a moment before he tried to kiss her back. Mycroft thought that it would be sensible to get the milestone of the first kiss out of the way before he became too busy with exams and had to focus on more grown-up matters.

He did not like her lip-gloss; it was sticky and tasted of cherries. Antonia hurt her mouth on his braces. He did not enjoy the kiss that much, it felt as if he had been left waiting for something.

Antonia did not like it that much and asked about his thoughts. Mycroft tried to tell her but could not describe what felt wrong with the kiss. It was not how he imagined it and it was never this awkward in the books and films he liked. 

She asked if he was gay and reassured him that it would not bother him in the slightest. She had thought that he was because he talked about Cary Grant films so often when they dance and overly admired him.

The kiss confirmed the suspicions that Mycroft had been had since he was thirteen and he did reluctantly confess to her that he was. The matter was quickly forgotten about moments after when Antonia asked if he could look over her maths homework.

She apologised for taking his first kiss away from him. She told him that it should have been kept for someone special, someone who he really cared about. She made him promise in between the clouds of horrid smelling tobacco, that the next person who he kissed had to be someone special. That he should not give away a kiss to someone who was not worth it or did not care for him that much.

It was one of the few promises that Mycroft kept close to his heart, unable to let it go for some reason.

“There are no girls that I am interested in. I can assure you,” Mycroft said after several moments of internal debate. He had weighed up the pros and cons about suggesting to Greg that he was inclined to men throughout the night after Greg had brought up a potential dance partner for him.

There was a risk that things would go incredibly nasty between them. He had heard the horror stories from the acquaintances that he had from in _Gay’s the Word_ as he browsed the bookshelves. He had been bullied horrendously at school for the slight inclination that he was queer along with the fact that he just existed bothered his classmates horrid.

He doubted that Greg would even react negatively to the information. He was kind among his other admirable qualities. The prospect of losing him still terrified Mycroft immensely.

“You are into more bookish girls, aren’t you?” Greg asked in response, confident in his assumption. “I don’t know why I took you to a club. I should have taken you to a book shop or a library and helped you find someone there. There is the new girl at my work that you might like.”

Mycroft opened his mouth and closed it again. He briefly wondered how much Greg had to drink and the number of braincells that he had in his head. He would have thought that Greg would have gotten the hint by now, he had made it rather clear on the phone and through his letters that he was not interested in the matter of girlfriends in the slightest. He was not a stereotype or like Mr Humphries, but he thought that it should have been somewhat obvious, he was in drama society of all university clubs to be a member of!

“Can we just go somewhere else?” Mycroft asked, somewhat loudly into Greg’s ear in order to be heard over the music. “I’d rather speak to you than be in some silly club and dance.”

Greg stopped swaying to the music and finished off his drink with great ease. “Let’s go,” he said simply, shoving his hands into his pockets. Want to get some chips?”

“Perfect,” Mycroft grinned.

* * *

“So why aren’t you going home?” Greg asked in between a mouthful of chips. “I’m glad that I get to have another day with you, don’t get me wrong, but wouldn’t you be wanting to see your family.”

Mycroft fiddled with the napkins at the table and found himself somewhat fascinated with the sight of the bubbles in Greg’s pint glass. “I’m hardly able to get work done when I am home,” he said, a half-truth. “Sherlock is not coming home this weekend and there is little point in making a trip home without seeing him.”

“Wouldn’t your parents be wanting to see you?” Greg asked.

Mycroft let out a non-committal noise and shrugged slightly. He could remember that his parents were probably last thrilled to see him when he was a thirteen, right before things went awfully pear-shaped in his family life. His mother usually regarded him with the same amount of attention that one might have for a potted plant. His father tended to ignore him and act as if he were not there on the rare occasions that he was home. It did not bother Mycroft that much, the two of them had not much to say to another since the fire …Mycroft preferred not to think about what happened then.

“It was rather kind of your mum to invite me round for dinner,” Mycroft said in the attempt to change the subject. “It has been a while since I’ve had a Sunday roast.”

Greg snorted and pushed the greasy newspaper over to Mycroft’s side of the table. “Wait until she starts going on about girlfriends. She will not believe that someone like you is not wanting to get a girlfriend.”

“Someone like me?” Mycroft asked with a raised eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

“You know…Myc, you are a good-looking bloke,” Greg shuffled in his seat, his cheeks had gone sugar-dusted pink. “You are just great…”

Mycroft blinked and found himself unable to responds. He often had those moments when it came to Greg especially after Greg had written something particularly wonderful or had complimented him. He often had to put down the letter down and go for a walk to help to cope with the intense wave of emotion that came crashing through him. He did the same when it came to novels and had found himself particularly moved by Jane Austen and Wuthering Heights and their fictional romances.

“You are great, very great,” Mycroft managed to utter out, his voice slightly higher pitched than he would have liked. “I can imagine that all the girls would be fighting to be with you.”  
  


He cursed quietly under his breath and shoved a chip in his mouth to prevent himself from talking. Greg probably thought that he was an absolute fool.

“There is no one that I really like,” Greg said with a shrug popping a chip into his mouth. “There are plenty of nice girls about, I don’t know, there isn’t that spark or anything.”

Mycroft discreetly leaned forward in his chair, eager to hear what Greg had to say. 

“There is nothing I can really say to them,” Greg said. “They are either not my type or I have to try so hard to like them. It is even worse when there is nothing to say. It is just so much easier with you. I don’t have to try or anything. You could talk about paint at three in the morning and I’d be thrilled to listen to it.”

Mycroft covered his hand with a mouth in the attempt to hide the grin that was threatening to come out. He had seen this bit played out in the films he loved so much. He had assumed that it was only for other people that it happened to, normal people, anyone other than him.

“I’m just glad that you are my best friend, Mycroft,” Greg said as if what he had said was the most important thing in the world. “I’d be a lot lonelier in this world without you. I'd sing Queen to you if I had a few more drinks in me. ”

Greg’s words fell upon him like a pallet of bricks, Mycroft’s hopes were crashing down around him in freefall. Mycroft bit the inside of his lip hard enough that he could taste blood. “I am glad that you think of me as your best friend,” he said somewhat flatly, terribly disapointed with what he had just been told. 

Greg did not seem to notice the expression on his face and was more occupied with trying to get the last bit of ketchup from the bottle.

* * *

“Do you ever think that the stars ever get lonely?” Greg asked, turning his head around to face Mycroft.

Mycroft folded his hands against his stomach and looked up at the sky, somewhat awkwardly from his position on the park bench. His expression a combination of bemused and thoughtful in response to what he said. “I do not think that stars have emotions,” he said. “They are beautiful though.”

Greg leaned against Mycroft’s shoulder; the soft material of his jacket pressed against his cheek. He was in that lovely stage of drinking, not exactly tipsy or drunk, but enough where he would always engage in deep conversations with his friends in the early hours of the morning. They always wanted to talk about his plans for the future, what animal would he bring back from being extinct , if he was truly happy or not.

“Do you ever wonder how many people have looked at the same sky?” He asked. “It’s just amazing how these things in the sky have connected people over the years. It’s bloody beautiful, that’s what it is.”

Mycroft chuckled quietly to himself, the noise had become one of Greg’s favourite sounds over the last few months. “You get rather philosophical when you have been drinking.”

“That is how the greats write their poetry,” Greg grinned. “They hardly write anything sober, they need all that booze, sex, and drugs to write masterpieces.”

“No wonder that I’ve been struggling to write then,” Mycroft said, dryly. “I’ve hardly had anything stronger than a tea or an Ovaltine.”

Greg shifted enough so he could count the freckles on Mycroft’s nose. He managed to count thirteen of them before he lost count and got distracted by Mycroft’s smile, a rather shy looking one. He looked rather beautiful in the soft glow of the streetlight.

“Do you ever feel lonely?” Greg asked, breaking the comfortable silence that had grown between them. “I’m not really lonely…I’m just stuck when it comes to things. I thought that my life would not be like this, you know. I’m happyish at times, that’s because of you.”

Mycroft sighed and took a long moment to respond. His words calculated and careful, his voice soft. “I can be at times,” he said. “I feel considerably less lonely when I get a letter from you. Even writing a letter to you, helps me to not feel lonely.”

“Have you ever had a girlfriend?” Greg asked. “They don’t make you happy, not the ones that I’ve had anyway.”

Mycroft shook his head. “I’ve never had one.”

“Have you ever kissed anyone?” Greg asked, deciding that was a more suitable question. He felt that it was rather rude asking if Mycroft had slept with someone. He could easily picture Mycroft as being a Victorian woman, it felt that asking him a question such as that would have offended his sensibilities and required smelling salts to help him recover from the shock.

“Once,” Mycroft offered after several long moments, shuffling awkwardly on the bench, jostling Greg’s head from his shoulder. “I have not done so in a long time.”

“Why not?” Greg asked. “I think that there would be plenty of people wanting to kiss you.”

Mycroft fiddled with the buttons on his jacket and shook his head at the thought in his head, he let out a soft chuckle. “You will not tell anyone this,” he said.

Greg nodded eagerly. “Why not?”

“I made a promise,” Mycroft said after several moments. “I made a silly promise when I was in school that I would not kiss anyone unless they cared for me. She believed that first kisses were rather special and that I should not waste them on people who did deserve them.”

Greg shook his head almost violently. “I can’t believe that you’ve not kissed anyone in a long time because of that.”

“I am aware that it is really silly,” Mycroft murmured. “I am not exactly to everyone’s taste- “

It was at that moment that Greg decided that it was a good idea to place a kiss on Mycroft’s cheek. It was a soft kiss, more of a flutter of his lips that only brushed against Mycroft’s cheek for a second. He hardly knew why he did it, he had the sudden urge to show Mycroft that he cared for him. It was the much easier way to show Mycroft that he cared, words did not seem enough.

Greg had always believed that actions spoke louder than words. He just rather hoped that Mycroft would be able to understand what he meant through his gesture. The alcohol had prevented him from being able to make a succinct sentence, one that was able to express to Mycroft how much he cared.

Mycroft’s ears went bright pink and his cheeks were scarlet. “Thank you,” he offered politely, almost as if he had little idea about what to say since had been free from that promise.

Greg reluctantly shuffled away from the bench and looked up to the sky again. “It is a beautiful night,” he said.

Mycroft swallowed hard and let out a noise of agreement. “It is a truly wonderful evening.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of the support for the story with the comments and kudos. It means the world to me especially when writing is such a process of doubt and panic in my attempt to do a good job when writing.


	7. October 1988- A Rather Brilliant Suggestion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Mycroft sat in silence, unsure what he was meant to say. It bothered him greatly that he could do things such as speak several languages fluently and do complex mathematics in his head with great ease but he struggled with his emotions and what to say in certain situations. He did often wish that he was more socially fluent ever since he met Greg; he always felt that he stumbled often."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to naivesherlolly who beta read this chapter for me. A massive thank you to Johnwatsonblog who is my trusted writing companion throughout all the stages of writing and in so many ways, you always keep me right.

_October 1988_

The days and the nights seemed to melt into one ever since Greg had returned from university. He had started to lose track of time, he could hardly remember what day of the week it was at times and he had little understanding of how it was already October. 

The letters and the phone calls that he had with Mycroft helped to break up his week and helped Greg to keep track of the time in the repetitive routine that he had found himself in since university. There was always a letter waiting for him on the kitchen table for when he had come home from work on a Monday afternoon. On occasion, there would be the second letter that week, often written in slightly messy handwriting in Mycroft’s haste to write a reply to him as quickly as possible. 

There were at least two phone calls a week between him and Mycroft that often lasted into the early hours of the morning. Greg feared to look at the phone bill and had had several rows with his dad about how much the phone bill had gone up. He’d saved up all the spare change he had and picked up any coins that he found on the ground, in pockets, and in between the cushions of the sofa to use in the phone box.

Greg looked at the old and faded Queen poster that was peeling away from the wall of his bedroom and had the nagging feeling that he had possibly made a mistake the evening before. 

He could hear Mycroft’s soft snoring and the squeak of the springs in his mattress as he shifted in the bed. 

He found himself unable to sleep that evening, his mind heavy and his spirits burdened with a melancholy mood. He shifted on the trundle bed in the attempt to get comfortable, feeling the springs on the thin mattress. 

“Mycroft,” Greg whispered in a low voice, shaking Mycroft’s hand that was hanging off the mattress. “Mycroft, are you sleeping?”

Mycroft shifted in the bed and sounded far more awake for someone who had just been roused from his sleep. “I was,” he said. 

“I’m sorry,” Greg cringed. “You can go back to sleep if you want.”

Mycroft shook his head and reached over for his watch on the bedside table clumsily with a tired hand. He picked it up and held it close to his face, squinting at the time. “It’s four in the morning. Have you not been able to sleep?”

Greg nodded even if Mycroft couldn’t see him in the bedroom and sighed. “Just a lot going on in my head,” he murmured. “Are things okay between us?”

Greg shifted onto Mycroft’s bed without a second thought or a moment of hesitation. It felt like a conversation that was meant to be done when he could see the other person. He grabbed the duvet from the other bed and wrapped it around himself.

  
“Why would things not be alright between us?” Mycroft asked, squinting at him. 

  
Greg reached over for the tortious shell frames that were on the desk. He had an odd feeling in his stomach when he saw Mycroft with his glasses for the first time and he had never noticed how blue his eyes were before. “Your eyesight must be awful,” he tried to joke as he handed Mycroft the frames. 

He tried to ignore the flutter in his stomach. He tried to tell himself off for having that reaction to his best friend. He had never had this sort of feeling when it came to anyone in a long time. it felt as if the carpet had been taken from under his feet when he had the realisation that he quite possibly fancied Mycroft. 

  
He had fancied men and had been assured that it was rather normal to do so. He had assumed that everyone went around fancying the same sex, and he always had done. he used to have arguments with his sister about who got to keep the James Dean poster in their room. He used to overly admire the older boys in school who were good at football or got top marks before he had moved onto rockstars. 

It was not until recently that he had realised that he had fancied men. He assumed that his feelings were admiration and idolisation towards them. He liked how the blokes were everything that he was not; they were good at football and were popular in school, they got top marks and were actually going places, or they were successful and rich rockstars.

He didn’t know who he could talk to about it. He didn’t have any mates that he could share it with other than Mycroft. But even then, he hardly knew how to bring up such a matter and there was far too much risk.

He would have gone to his mum. He would always go to her when he had a problem, but he couldn’t this time. He knew that it would upset her and break her heart. Greg couldn’t do that to her.

“I’m sorry that my dad called you a Tory,” Greg said after several moments, his eyes glued to Roger Taylor’s face on his Queen poster. “I don’t think that you‘re a posh bastard; or anything that he thinks for that matter.”

Mycroft nudged his leg with his foot. “I did not expect to have your father try to cause an argument over the dinner table _or_ for him to launch a roast potato off his fork at me with his excessive gesturing. I am not upset in the slightest.”

It was a disaster of a Sunday dinner that Greg would never forget. His mum started to act like the Queen was coming around for dinner; she had the best plates out and kept talking in her ‘phone voice’. She was eagerly asking Mycroft about his house, what his parents did, what his plans were for after university. She was enthralled with anything that Mycroft had to say, the two of them huddled together on the dinner table talking about books and theatre. 

Greg could already see the lectures and the nagging from his mum happening. She kept sending him pointed looks each time she asked Mycroft his plans for after university or when she complimented his manners and how polite he was, and when he offered to help wash the dishes. It was obvious that she had adored him; Mycroft was the son that she wanted, the one who she would boast about to her friends. 

His dad, however, was unimpressed with Mycroft and seemed to take personal offence when he politely declined a visit to the pub when dinner was over or that he did not know anything about football. He kept complaining about the Tories and Thatcher, trying to engage Mycroft to argue with him about politics, and it had led to some unsavoury things being said over dinner. 

“My dad’s not the biggest fan of Thatcher. The strikes and the pit closures, you know?” Greg tried to explain. “A few of his mates from back home lost their jobs and my dad reads the papers religiously. He’s an alright bloke, he just likes to voice his opinion.”

Mycroft made an amused noise. “It is a welcome change from my own father,” he said. “My father is hardly home and we do not get along in the slightest. Is that what has been preventing you from sleeping?” 

Greg opened his mouth, but after a moment of debate, he shook his head. “There are a few other things,” he said once he had managed to summon up the courage to speak. “I hope that you don’t mind too much, but you‘re my best friend and I don’t have anyone else I can really speak to about this.”

Mycroft quickly shook his head in response. “I think this is a conversation that needs to be held over a cup of tea.”

Greg pushed the duvet over himself and threw one of his jumpers over to Mycroft. “I’ll get the kettle on.” He said with a smile. 

* * *

Mycroft watched Greg put five teaspoons of sugar into his mug of tea with his nose wrinkled in disgust. “Do you even like tea?” He asked. 

“How many do you take?” Greg asked with the sugar caddy in his hand. “Pass the milk when you’re up. There should be some of the good biscuits that mum made, in the jar.”

“Do you not think that it is a bit early for biscuits? It is five in the morning.” Mycroft asked with a raised eyebrow as he passed the milk over to Greg. “Two sugars, please.”

Greg placed two large and overflowing teaspoons of sugar into his mug. “It’s not like you’re going to have the police come round if you eat a biscuit before elevenses. Live a little, Myc.”

After a moment of debate and sigh of realisation that his diet had gone completely out of the window since he had crossed the threshold of Greg’s home, Mycroft took a biscuit from the cow-shaped jar. 

“What were you wanting to talk about?” Mycroft asked, breaking the comfortable silence that had grown between him and Greg as they sipped their mugs of sugary tea. “There’s been a lot on your mind, I can tell. You always start writing something in your letters but stop and scribble out the sentence. “

Greg opened up his mouth and then shook his head. His eyes were glued to the chipped and faded floral mug. The mug was kept out of sentimental value, the handle had been repaired with glue several times. “Do you think that my mum is actually going to set you up with one of her friend’s daughters?” He asked. “Is there anyone who you fancy? You’ve never talked about girls or been on a date since we’ve known each other, or at least you’ve not mentioned it.”

Mycroft shook his head quickly in response. “I told your mother that I was far too busy with university to even think about going on a date.”

He had discreetly told her that he was not interested in women in the slightest when they were washing the dishes while Greg and his father went out to the pub. He hadn’t planned to tell anyone that he was gay, he had never wanted to make the fuss but it was necessary, she was almost planning for him to get married with how she talked about her friend’s daughter. 

It had taken several attempts for her to pick up the message; telling her that he was a member of drama society helped the message sink in. She had been kind, thankfully, and she had even hugged him. He clung onto her for longer than he should have done; it had been years since he had last had a mother’s affections. He knew for a fact that his own mother would not react with the kindness of Greg’s. 

Greg chewed his biscuit thoughtfully. “So if you had to pick someone to go on a date with, like...a celebrity, who would it be?” 

Cary Grant was the first name that came to mind, or James Dean if he had to pick someone famous. He knew for a fact that Greg would have been his first choice without a shred of doubt, but he couldn’t tell him that; he would never be able to show his face to him if he did and it would surely ruin their friendship. 

“Kate Bush,” Mycroft said confidently once he laid his eyes on a copy of Wuthering Heights that was on the counter. 

Greg choked on his biscuit. “Kate Bush?” He asked as if he had heard the strangest thing ever. “You fancy Kate Bush? She is a bit strange especially with that dancing.”

“Yes,” Mycroft fibbed, his voice somewhat strained. He had never cared much for lying and always thought that it caused more problems than necessary. The fibbing to Greg, even if it was somewhat necessary, bothered him greatly. “Is that a problem?”

“No,” Greg shrugged. “Just couldn’t imagine that she’d be your type, that’s all.” 

The expression on his face was difficult to read and Mycroft struggled to identify the emotion. Greg almost looked rather bothered by his fib and somewhat disappointed. It made Mycroft wonder if Greg knew that he had told a fib right to his face. 

“Who do you fancy then?” Mycroft asked and tried to refrain from his sigh. He did not like this lads talk and it was painfully evident that he was not the best at it. “I do not think that we are the type of friends who discuss things like this.”

“You are really awful,” Greg said in agreement. “That’s alright, I know that this isn’t your thing. I can’t exactly imagine you down in the pub talking about what girls you like with the blokes in the drama society.” 

They had similar conversations like this in drama society in the student union, often crude conversations about what boys some of the group had taken a fancy to. Mycroft never participated in them; he pretended to read his book while he sat with the group and just listened in to the conversation, keeping his opinions to himself. 

“You were fibbing anyway,” Greg chuckled. “I can tell when you are.” 

“What makes you think that I was?” Mycroft asked. 

“You do this thing with your nose and scrunch it up,” Greg replied. “Besides, I saw you looking at that copy of Wuthering Heights and the gears move in your head as you tried to think of Kate Bush.”

“I am sorry for lying,” Mycroft said, his eyes glued to his mug. “I don’t fancy anyone at all, I’ve always been a bit more focused on my coursework.” He tried his best not to scrunch up his nose when he fibbed that time. 

“That’s alright if you don’t,” Greg said with a reassuring smile. “I broke you free of that stupid promise that you made when you were in school. You can kiss who you want now.”

Mycroft placed his hand on his cheek from when Greg had kissed it the other day. He had spent longer than he should have done thinking about it and it had weighed down on his mind heavily. He tried not to get his hopes up, but he found it incredibly difficult to keep them grounded. He knew that it was only going to lead to disappointment and heartbreak for himself. 

  
He knew that it had to mean something even if it was a kiss that lasted a moment on his cheek. Mycroft had done what Antonia had instructed him to do, only allow himself to be kissed by someone who cared for him. 

  
Even if fate had decided that he and Greg were just to be friends and remain platonic, Greg had made it clear that he cared for him deeply. Mycroft could only take what he was given and he hoped that it would be enough.

“Thank you,” he said, unsure about how he was meant to respond. “That was very kind of you.”

“That’s what friends are for,” Greg shrugged, his expression looked almost pained. 

He did not speak for a long moment and distracted himself by making two more mugs with tea. He finally spoke with his back turned to Mycroft, almost as if he was afraid to look at him. “Can we talk about something serious? I’ve tried to write it in a letter but I can’t. I can’t even talk about it on the phone.” 

Mycroft fiddled with the sleeve of Greg’s jumper that he was wearing. The jumper hung awkwardly on him, too large and slightly too short in the sleeves. “What are you wanting to talk about?” Mycroft asked. 

  
“Are you happy?” Greg asked in a quiet voice. “If you could look at your life right now as an outsider, would you be able to say that you were happy?”

Mycroft thought carefully for a moment and felt rather guilty that he did. He was coping with university much better than he thought. He was part of drama society and he had Greg and several acquaintances. He was considerably happier than he was this time last year. He was alone then. 

“It’s alright if you are,” Greg said. “Just because I’m miserable doesn’t mean that you have to be.”

Mycroft sat in silence, unsure what he was meant to say. It bothered him greatly that he could do things such as speak several languages fluently and do complex mathematics in his head with great ease but he struggled with his emotions and what to say in certain situations. He did often wish that he was more socially fluent ever since he met Greg; he always felt that he stumbled often. 

“I’m happy at times,” Greg tried to explain. “I’m just stuck, you know? I thought that the real world was going to be so much better than university. Like it wasn’t meant to be like this.”

“What will make you feel better in this situation?” Mycroft asked simply. “Do you need to go to the pub? Do you need a cup of tea? A hug?”

Greg chuckled at his suggestions despite the melancholy that surrounded him. Mycroft felt absolutely foolish and wished that he had more knowledge on how to fix the situation. “I do apologise,” he murmured. “I am terrible at this.”

“It’s probably because you don’t have your list of conversation starters,” Greg attempted to joke. “It’s just a lot...well it’s not a lot going on actually. I’m probably fed up with everything. I’m just worried that London is going to be exactly the same.”

“It would be much easier for me to visit you when you are in London,” Mycroft said, fiddling with Greg’s jumper. “I could always try and see you every weekend. I do expect you to keep on writing letters though, I do look forward to getting them.”

Greg grinned and Mycroft found it impossible not to do the same himself. “There is nothing that would stop me writing to you,” Greg said, clapping Mycroft on the shoulder hard. 

“If you don’t mind me saying this,” Mycroft said, somewhat hesitantly. “You’re just wasted here - It’s obvious that you are, there is little opportunity here and you are clearly miserable. You should just go to London. You know you want to go.” 

“I can’t,” Greg said, shaking his head. “My mum absolutely hates the idea of it and then there’s the money aspect as well.”

Mycroft thought carefully for a long moment. The idea that went into his head sounded absolutely foolish and it was impulsive, irresponsible. He opened up his mouth regardless. “I am going to be working in London once I leave university,” He said after taking a deep breath for courage. “I think that we should just get a flat together. I can hardly stand other people and London is expensive. It makes perfect sense.”

Greg looked at him as if he had grown three heads. “Are you suggesting what I think you are?”

“Your mother is going to allow you to move to London if we’re living together,” Mycroft said as if it was the most obvious fact. “I can stay over on the weekends when I’m there for work and I will be paying my share of the rent and the bills.”

“This is absolutely brilliant!” Greg beamed. He wrapped his arms around Mycroft without a moment of hesitation. 

The feeling that he had just taken a large sip of hot tea flooded through Mycroft and settled in his middle. It was Mycroft’s favourite feeling, he tried to hold onto as much warmth as it was possible, he had little idea how long it would be until he would be able to feel it again. 

Greg picked up the old newspapers from the morning before on the counter and started to circle potential flats in biro.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has liked and commented on this story, it does mean the world to me!


	8. December 1988- The Flatshare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Mycroft had never thought that it would be possible for the flat to feel warm, safe, and comfortable. Now he almost considered it to be home. He rather enjoyed living with Greg more than he expected; he didn’t have to walk around on eggshells like how he used to when he lived in his family home and there was never any silence. His book collection had doubled in size upon living with Greg and Greg was a wonderful cook. 
> 
> It would have been perfect if Greg didn’t have a girlfriend and if he stopped his habit of walking around shirtless. '

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to NaieveSherlolly who beta read this. 
> 
> Deanna, for you, always.

_ December 1988 _

The outdated floral wallpaper in his bedroom peeled off the wall, revealing water stains that the landlord had hastily tried to cover up before they moved into the flat. Mycroft was still living out of his suitcase; he hadn’t gotten round to decorating his bedroom. Getting his desk, bed, and his books unpacked had been his biggest priority upon moving in. 

The walls were thin and he could hear the conversations that Greg was having on the phone, he could hear him singing in the shower, and he could hear the squeak of his bed and the headboard hitting against the wall when he brought his girlfriend home. The furniture in the shared areas were mismatched and well used, consisting of bits and pieces that were gifted to Greg for the move from family and neighbours or were picked out by Greg from a charity shop. He was so pleased when he managed to get the sofa for less than £50.

Mycroft knew that he shouldn’t have expected a palace when it came to getting a flat in Shepherd’s Bush with Greg, but he had been hoping for a place that was a little more glamorous. He knew that if he did not live with Greg, he wouldn’t have stayed in the flat as long as he did. He found it impossible to not be enthusiastic about the flat when he was around Greg; the novelty still hadn’t worn off for him. 

It was an awfully domestic life they had fallen into. Greg took over the cooking when he wasn’t working and was like his mother when it came to how much he fussed over things; always insisting that he was eating and not studying excessively. The two of them did the shopping together and were buying bits and pieces for the house too. He helped Greg to bed when he had gotten a bit too drunk when he went out clubbing and made tea and toast for him the next morning when he was hungover. 

Mycroft had never thought that it would be possible for the flat to feel warm, safe, and comfortable. Now he almost considered it to be home. He rather enjoyed living with Greg more than he expected; he didn’t have to walk around on eggshells like how he used to when he lived in his family home and there was never any silence. His book collection had doubled in size upon living with Greg and Greg was a wonderful cook. 

It would have been perfect if Greg didn’t have a girlfriend and if he stopped his habit of walking around shirtless. 

“Do you mind if Claire comes round?” Greg asked, walking into his room without knocking.

Mycroft tried his best not to startle and upon noticing that Greg had just come out of the shower and had not gotten around to putting a dressing gown on at least, he kept his eyes glued to the pages of E.M. Forster's  _ Maurice, _ not trusting himself to look up from them. Greg genuinely had no idea how beautiful he was; it was almost endearing at times but incredibly frustrating, especially when he decided to have a chat right after he’d been in the shower and would happily stand there in just a towel, the drops of water still trailing down his skin. 

Mycroft cleared this throat and kept his eyes glued to his book, thankful that he decided to sit at his desk to read. He tried not to dwell on the image of Greg standing in just his towel and smelling of vanilla, instead, he started to list the monarchs from the House of Wessex in his head before he could answer. 

“Claire is free to come over,” he eventually said, somehow managing to keep his voice level. “You never normally ask.”

“You just don’t seem to like it that much when she’s there,” Greg said. “You can just tell me if you don’t like her.”

Mycroft put down his book and took a glance over his shoulder. He tried to not let his eyes linger too long on the drop of water that was slowly trailing down Greg’s chest and to his navel. He scolded himself for the sinful thought that went into his head...how without a moment of hesitation, he would remove that towel and put his hands and his mouth on- Mycroft shook his head in the attempt to get rid of that thought, the feeling of guilt covered him like a wet blanket. 

He had that feeling on a regular basis ever since he had moved into the flat, more so now as Greg had started to creep up on him in his thoughts whenever he was alone or when he was in the shower. He could hardly look Greg in the eyes these days without the feeling of shame.

“I do not have a problem with Claire,” he said, his voice tighter than he would have liked it to be. 

It’s a half-truth. Out of all the girls that Greg had been out with or had brought him to meet, Claire was the one who bothered him the least. She was doing a masters degree in Chemistry, she was well-read, and she could speak French fluently. It was not entirely awful talking to her when he bumped into her in the kitchen in the morning. Greg started going out with her at the start of the month and they became serious rather quickly. She had been staying over three days a week and she had taken up the bathroom with her creams and shower gels and the drying rack with her clothes. Mycroft was convinced that she did so to save money and time on the commute to university. 

The only problems that he had with Claire was that she was going out with Greg, that she had the habit of helping herself to his stationary, and that she folded the pages of the books that he had loaned her instead of using a bookmark.

“The walls are just thin,” Mycroft managed to utter out after Greg probed him for several minutes. “It’s difficult to concentrate on my coursework when she is around. The headboard-”

Greg cleared his throat and shuffled around, the towel slipped slightly but he caught it before it fell down. Mycroft had to look away and take several deep breaths to be able to function. “I’ll do my best to...keep it down,” he said, awkwardly. “I apologise.”

Mycroft closed his book, took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose with a heavy sigh. He felt that he had crossed a line; he did not know if friends were meant to address those types of elephants. “I get bad headaches especially around this time of year with the amount of coursework and the stress,” Mycroft lied, he tried his best to scrunch up his nose. “The extra noise does not help things.”

“I can just go over to Clare’s tonight or make different plans,” Greg said. “I don’t want to give you a migraine. You are looking a bit peaky, Myc.”

Mycroft kept his eyes glued to the peeling floral wallpaper, Greg had perched on the side of the desk and it was impossible not to look. He knew that the image would be following him to the shower that evening if he was alone; the guilt would linger for days. 

“I’m going to have a lie-down,” Mycroft managed to utter, trying to think of the politest way to get Greg out of his room. “My train was delayed and I did not sleep well the evening before. I had an essay that was due this afternoon. I stayed up most of the night trying to get it ready to hand in before I left.”

Greg placed a hand on his shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze, lingering for several moments before he removing it with some level of reluctance. “I’ll go and let you have a lie-down,” he said. “You know that you are allowed to bring someone to the flat?”

Mycroft shook his head. “I am just focusing on my coursework at the moment; no time for that sort of business,” He said, wrinkling his nose. 

He had been on a few dates with one of the members of the drama society, mostly to see what the fuss was about and in the attempt to get over his silly crush for Greg when he started to go out with Claire. Alex worked backstage and was in his politics lectures. He liked to watch Star Trek and they watched Doctor Who together. He was bookish and introverted, rather handsome even if he did have dirt under his nails or smelt vaguely of WD40 on occasion from his job in the bicycle repair shop. Mycroft was not sure if anything long term would happen between them but it had helped his confidence somewhat and his bicycle had never been in better shape. 

He had brought Alex to the flat once when he was picking up his textbooks before he went back to university. Greg was out of the flat and they had made use of the empty flat; they hardly had any privacy in university. He introduced Alex as his ‘friend,’ when Greg had walked in once they had gotten dressed again; he didn’t know what to call him and he didn’t want to make a fuss. Greg didn’t seem overly impressed with Alex and tried to make awkward small talk with him, although he wasn’t quite sure what he was meant to say. 

He didn’t think that Greg liked Alex that much. Mycroft thought that Greg almost seemed bothered that he was no longer the centre of his social life these days and seemed almost jealous of Alex. Greg hadn’t been too thrilled when he had decided to stay at university for a weekend to spend it with Alex. He seemed not to have been too impressed whenever Alex was on the phone during the weekend or when he had come up in conversation. 

  
  


Greg nudged his side playfully. “For all I know, you could be bringing birds home when I’m not there,” he said. “You are very much a ‘lady doesn’t kiss and tell’ sort.” 

“I’m just going to lie- down now, I don’t want to keep you back from Claire,” Mycroft said, closing his book with much more force than necessary. “Whatever you had in the oven smells like it’s burning.”   
  


Greg yelped and dashed out of his bedroom as if someone had lit a fire underneath him and went into the kitchen. There was the stench of smoke and the bitter smell of the steak pie that Greg had made which was now cremated. He could hear Greg swear and throw the baking tray and the pie out of the kitchen door. 

Despite the chaos in the kitchen, Mycroft felt somewhat relieved by the situation and that Greg was finally out of his bedroom even if it meant that dinner was now burnt. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for everyone who has read, kudos and commented on this fic. It really means the world to me even if it's not the most popular one going. You all keep me writing.


	9. December 1988- Uncle Rudy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta read by naivesherlolly.

_December 1988_

“He’s gay,” Claire commented, turning the page of the book that she was reading. She helped herself to the cigarette from Greg’s fingers, tapping it carefully against the chipped mug that had become a make-shift ashtray before she lazily took a puff. “It’s obvious.” 

Greg shook his head and took the cigarette back from Claire, wincing when he saw her fold the pages of Mycroft’s copy of Lord of the Rings, the spine creased with the way that she had been reading it. He wondered if he would be able to buy a replacement without Mycroft knowing about it; they had bickered about Claire damaging his books regularly. 

“What makes you think that he is?” Greg asked, pinching the cigarette from his girlfriend. “He’s just...Mycroft. He’s private about these sorts of things.”

Claire shifted in the bed, her hair falling across the pillow, her eyeliner smudged. They went straight to bed after the club; Greg couldn’t even recall brushing his teeth. “He’s a queer. I thought that you would know about this by now, it’s obvious.”

Greg shook his head and let out a disbelieving laugh. He hardly knew how they managed to get onto the topic of Mycroft, it was hardly pillow talk, but they had stumbled upon it somehow. He felt he too hungover to even have this conversation. “If he was,” he said, matter of fact, “he would have told me. We’re best mates, he should be able to say anything to me. Do you have a problem with him?”

Claire let out a noncommittal noise and kissed his wrist. “He is just a bit odd,” she hummed. “He just looked at me and knew that I studied Chemistry and that I had a cat among everything else. He looks at people as if he’s reading a book or looking at a painting; trying to get every detail out of them. He’s nice enough but he is strange, Tilly thinks so as well.” 

Greg sat up in bed and started to look for his trousers. “Mycroft is not weird, odd, or strange,” he said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I’m not going to stay around if you’re saying things like that about my best friend.” 

“Why does he hang around you all the time?” Claire asked, throwing the duvet off herself and getting out of the bed. “The pair of you are constantly attached at the hip! You’re missing a party to go to this stupid play of his. The two of you are on the phone together most days and you write to another even if you live together!”

Greg grabbed his jeans from the floor and shoved them on, stumbling slightly. Claire threw his t-shirt at him, hitting him in the face. “Is this because I don’t write to you?” He asked, exasperated. “I can just write you a bloody letter if you want one.” 

The bickering turned explosive. The two of them argued constantly in the nearly two months that they had been seeing one another but this was on a new level. Claire’s flatmate, Tilly, banged on the door several times, shouting at them to be quiet. Claire’s downstairs neighbour, Mrs MacBride was hitting her ceiling with her walking stick, bellowing that it was sinful to be screaming like banshees on a Sunday morning among her complaints about young people. 

“The pair of you are just strange,” Claire huffed. “You belong together - I’m not going to share my boyfriend with a queer.”

Greg shoved on his leather jacket and grabbed Mycroft’s copy of Lord of the Rings from the bedside table. “It’s a good job that you don’t have a boyfriend anymore,” he said coldly. “You don’t talk about my best friend like that.”

Claire opened up her mouth and closed it again, folding her arms against her chest and huffed like a toddler. “Of course you are going to pick the weirdo over me.” 

“He’s my best friend,” Greg said simply. “Why wouldn’t I pick him? He’s always going to come first. ”

He left without another word, slamming the door behind him. He could hear Mrs MacBride’s voice echo in the grey corridor to keep the noise down. He let Claire’s words stay with him as he walked to the tube for longer than he wanted to. 

* * *

It was the eyeliner and the small gold studs that Uncle Rudy had in his ear that Mycroft could not take his eyes away from. He tried to focus his gaze on the spines of the books that were on the large overflowing shelves in the study. 

“How are you, my boy?” Uncle Rudy asked. 

Mycroft smiled politely and shifted in the uncomfortable wooden chair in his Uncle’s study, facing the plush armchair that Rudy was sat in. “I’m well,” he said simply, not quite sure what he was meant to say to his Uncle these days. “How are you?”

“I suppose that the weather could be better,” he sniffed. “Do you want to be mother?”

Mycroft nodded and tried to fight the feeling impending doom that he had been experiencing ever since a black car had pulled up in front of his flat that morning. He always had a feeling of dread when he saw Uncle Rudy; it was impossible not to after all that nasty business last year. “What were you wanting to talk about?” he asked, trying to hide any trace of nerves he felt. 

He poured two cups of tea, one sugar cube for himself and three for Rudy. He forced himself to smile when Rudy took the cup from him, sipping at it gratefully with speed. 

Mycroft shifted in the chair and slowly sipped his tea. He closed his eyes and braced himself for impact when Rudy eventually opened up his mouth to speak. 

“I enjoyed your letter,” he said simply. “The Importance of Being Earnest is a favourite of mine. I suppose that I should be expecting to get a ticket in the next week or so.”

Mycroft blinked and tried his best to camouflage his look of surprise that had crept upon his face. He had offered a ticket to Sherlock in his last letter but it had gone ignored. He had brought it up over the phone, but Sherlock claimed that he was going to be too busy with ‘washing his hair,’ to attend. He hadn’t even bothered telling Mummy about the show; she would be completely uninterested in attending. She had barely cared when he told her that he had gotten a flat in Shepherds Bush and that he was moving out. 

Mycroft cleared his throat. “I suppose that I could bring you a ticket when I’m next in the office,” he said. 

  
Rudy nodded, a small smile momentarily appeared on his features. “Do you have a costume sorted? I doubt that the drama society would have suitable costumes for the show, let alone a good hat. They will make you look like a pantomime dame instead of Lady Bracknell.” 

Mycroft shook his head, “I suppose that the drama society would be able to conjure something up in time.” 

  
Rudy scoffed and went into his desk drawer and pulled out a small gold key. He beckoned Mycroft to leave his chair for him to follow him up the large staircase in the manor house and along the maze of dark corridors. 

Rudy flicked on the lights, a dull glow slowly made its way across the corridor. Mycroft rubbed his nose self continuously once he had caught a glimpse of the family portraits, the oldest being from the seventeenth century which made it evident that he had inherited the very unfortunate looking family nose. 

  
Rudy unlocked the door but did not open it. He glanced back at Mycroft. “No secrets and no lies. This is something only for the two of us to know.”

  
“Of course, Uncle Rudy,” Mycroft nodded. 

Mycroft tried to hide the feeling of impending doom when Rudy opened up the door. He did not know what he had been expecting, a corpse or his sister (even if she was meant to have been locked up in Sherrinford). He did not expect to see a poodle skirt when he first looked into the room. 

It was a small room in considerably better condition than the rest of the home, which he had let cobwebs be weaved into the corners of the room and a thick layer of dust settle on his tables and bookshelves. There was a full-length dressing room mirror and several racks of clothes in the room, resembling the costume department for the drama society. There was a ball gown and a flapper dress, along with more modern-looking clothing. 

Rudy allowed him to sit on the stool for the vanity as he started to go through the racks of clothing, muttering quietly to himself. Mycroft averted his eyes and inspected the shades of lipstick that were on the table. 

“I think that WildWood Rose would suit you the best. You’ve got a complexion that people would envy,” Rudy commented, glancing over his shoulder with a maroon dress in his hand. “Stand up.”

Mycroft put down the tube of lipstick that he was holding and stood up, Rudy holding the dress up against him. “This will fit you wonderfully,” Uncle Rudy beamed. “I know that you may protest but if you want an authentic performance, you will need to wear the period-appropriate undergarments. The corsets, crinoline; the hat as well! You cannot be Lady Bracknell without a hat. It will surely get you into character.”

Mycroft tried to appear enthusiastic about the dress out of politeness for Rudy’s sake. He hadn’t been opposed to dressing up for the role but Rudy was more enthusiastic about his upcoming performance than he had been. 

“This is far too kind of you,” Mycroft offered somewhat reluctantly, not quite sure what he was meant to say. 

He wrinkled his nose when the hat was placed on his head. The large ostrich feather was too much for his linking and it looked utterly ridiculous on him. He looked more like a pantomime dame than anything. 

  
“It will fit better once you’ve got the wig on and the hat pins,” Rudy tried to reassure him. 

Mycroft made a non-committal noise and placed the hat back into the box, not quite sure what to say.

* * *

“You are an absolute natural at this!” Uncle Rudy commented once Mycroft had put down the eyeliner pencil. “I can hardly believe that you’re a beginner at this. You must have at least played with your mother’s cosmetics as a child; that’s how I got started.” 

Mycroft allowed himself to smile in the mirror for a brief moment and shook his head. He followed Rudy’s instructions on the best way to put on lipstick without getting it on his teeth. . He had felt rather self-conscious about wearing makeup and had protested about the matter until Rudy reassured him that it was only war paint and that soldiers camouflaged their faces regularly. 

“There was something else that I was wanting to talk about,” Rudy said, somewhat hesitant once his lipstick had been applied. He offered Mycroft a bowl of warm water and a flannel to remove the makeup from his face. 

“What is that?” Mycroft asked. 

“I suppose that this is a matter of no secrets and no lies,” he said, his moustache twitching. “It will be between the two of us.”

Mycroft put down the flannel and bit his lip nervously. “I will not tell anyone about the cross-dressing,” he tried to reassure him. 

Rudy let out a quiet chuckle and sat down on the edge of the vanity bench. He did not speak for several moments. “I saw you go into a certain book shop in London several weeks ago,” he said as he opened up a drawer in the vanity and pulled out the copy of Maurice that Mycroft thought that he lost. “This fell out of your bag in the office. You should be more careful with your books, my boy.”

Mycroft felt the colour drain from his face and he suddenly felt rather nauseated, his mouth going dry. He had thought that he had been rather discreet when he visited _Gay’s the Word;_ that bookshop was the only part of London gay life that he had allowed himself to embrace. 

He swallowed hard and tried to speak, his voice tight, the words almost impossible to get out. “What are you wanting to know?” he asked quietly.

“If you are a homosexual?” Rudy said, far too casually for Mycroft’s liking, almost as if he was discussing the weather. 

  
Mycroft knew that there was little point in lying; he knew that Uncle Rudy most likely knew the answer and had deduced it off him somehow. 

Mycroft swallowed hard. “Would it be a problem if I was?” he asked. 

Rudy shook his head and chuckled at him. “It would be hypocritical of me to have one,” he said before his expression turned sombre. “ It will upset your mother if you tell her; it will probably make her cry. You will always have a place here if things ever go pear-shaped.” 

He handed Mycroft a handkerchief from his pocket and did not comment when he dabbed his eyes. “That is the most sentimentality that I will allow between the two of us for the rest of the year, perhaps the next two.”

Mycroft nodded and started to scrub the cosmetics off his face while Rudy chatted away about E.M Forster's books until he suddenly changed the subject. “Mycroft, may I offer you a piece of advice?” he asked. 

Mycroft nodded, placing the flannel in the bowl of water, rolling down his sleeves. “Of course.” 

“Do not allow a man to break your heart,” Rudy said, almost hesitantly. “No man is worth your tears, the one who is, won’t make you cry.”

Mycroft nodded, not quite sure what he was meant to say in response. He was fairly certain that he allowed his heart to break on a frequent basis because of Greg. 

* * *

“How’s your day been?” Greg asked as he walked into the flat, the hatbox tucked under his arm. 

Mycroft let out a non-committal noise. He shrugged off his coat and dropped onto the sofa next to Greg with a groan. “I thought that Claire was meant to be over,” he said. “Can I have one?”

Greg scrubbed a hand through his hair and fished out the box of cigarettes from under the pile of books on the table. “I thought that you were quitting,” he said. 

Mycroft took the box and pulled out a cigarette, bringing the ashtray closer to his side of the table. “I can always quit again tomorrow,” he commented. “I’ve got a three thousand word essay on the Peasants’ Revolt of 1381 due on Tuesday and I’ve just started reading for it. It’s enough to drive anyone to smoke.”

Greg let out a sympathetic noise and clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ll get through it,” he said. “You’ll get top marks as always.”

Mycroft allowed himself to smile and lit his cigarette. It had been a very unusual day and he wasn’t too sure how he was meant to feel about it. “Where’s Claire?” he asked. 

  
Greg picked up a copy of Lord of the Rings from the coffee table and handed it to him. “I’ve bought you a new copy,” he said. “Claire completely wrecked the last one, I know that you don’t like folded pages. We broke up this morning.”

Mycroft spluttered on his cigarette, he had never been too good at smoking and still smoked like a teenager. “I’m sorry,” he offered, feeling slightly guilty that he was rather pleased about it. 

“Plenty of fish in the sea,” Greg shrugged. “Fate will help me find someone else.”

Mycroft nodded and tried to hide the nagging feeling that Greg was about to say something profound but he was holding back. “You are my best mate,” he said eventually, rather fimly, grabbing his hand for a brief moment. “Even if fate finds me someone amazing, you are always going to come first.” 

Mycroft did not say anything for a long moment. “Thank you,” he uttered out eventually, giving Greg’s hand a squeeze. 

Greg opened his mouth and closed it again. There was a question on the tip of his tongue but he seemed unable to get it out, he made several attempts to speak until he could get a sentence out. “You would tell me everything?” he asked, somewhat hesitantly. “You know that you would be able to do so. Nothing’s going to change that as I’d still probably be best friends with you even if you were a...bank robber or whatever.”

Mycroft nodded and swallowed hard. It would have been easy enough to say a certain sentence to Greg; he had been wanting to say it for weeks. There had been so many times that he had accidentally written down those certain words and he had to rewrite the whole page of his letter again. 

“Rocky is about to start, I saw it on the television guide in the newspaper,” Mycroft said, changing the subject completely. He picked up the remote and started to flick through the channels before Greg could say anything else. 

* * *

He was woken up by the alarm on his digital watch, a shrill beep that forced him out of sleep. Mycroft switched off the alarm and realised that the living room lights and television were still on, wondering when he had fallen asleep on the sofa. 

His neck was uncomfortably stiff from where he had slept, his head not resting on the cushion of the sofa:

but on Greg’s chest of all places. 

Mycroft tried to ignore the wave of panic that started to run through him when he noticed that Greg had his arms wrapped around him tight, snoring loudly. He looked rather peaceful when he slept and it pained Mycroft to pull away from him.

Greg stirred lightly once Mycroft managed to untangle himself from him. Almost instantly, his body seemed to miss Greg; it craved the warmth and the comfort which came from having arms wrapped around him tightly, almost afraid to let him go. 

Mycroft tried to ignore the feeling of shame that ran through him when he realised that he had gotten hard after being in such close contact with Greg. He had tried to keep his distance from Greg recently; his body seemed to be in a state of near arousal in his presence due to Greg’s apparent allergy to wearing shirts or just existing. 

He had never had this problem before in the early days of their friendship - he had been able to keep his body in control and ignore any urges he‘d had the majority of the time. It had been impossible to ignore them these days after being intimate with Alex; it seemed to have awakened his sex drive. 

He had never been too intrested in the world of sex until he had started his last year of university; any urges that he‘d had previously were easily ignored and he’d put all of the energy into his school work. He had recently discovered that it was fantastic stress relief from the pressures of course work, his dissertation and the problems in his personal life. He had allowed himself to indulge, and Alex was more than happy for him to do so. 

Mycroft went into his bedroom and forced himself to count the petals on the horrid floral wallpaper in his room and do long division in his head at the same time in an attempt to suppress any urges. 

He tried a cold shower in the attempt to get rid of them with little success and with great reluctance, he allowed himself to indulge. It hardly took anything until he let out a muffled moan around his hand after several strokes and thinking about a particular thought about him and Greg in the university library. 

Mycroft tried to ignore the feeling of shame that hung above his head like a cloud as he dried himself and slipped into his bedroom in just a towel, unnoticed by Greg, who was still asleep on the sofa. 

He wondered if he should just stay at university for the rest of the year to cut back the amount of time that he spent with Greg in the attempt to spare their friendship; it was becoming increasingly difficult to look him in the eye. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your comments and kudos, they keep me writing!


	10. December 1988- Soho

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'It was a job at the end of the day; it was hardly the most glamorous one in the world, but he liked it and he got to listen to music all night. It hardly mattered that it was at a gay bar in Soho.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta read by theh wonderful naievesherlolly. 
> 
> The alternate chapter name would be 'Gay Bar Greg,' trying to make it a new tag on a03.

_December 1988._

Mycroft barely glanced up from the letter that he was writing when Alex walked into his room unannounced and kissed the top of his head. The smell of WD40 filled the room and Mycroft tried not to frown at the smudge of bicycle oil left on the cuff of his shirt when Alex leaned over to kiss him. 

“What are you working on?” Alex asked, sitting on Mycroft’s bed without asking permission to do so, wrinkling the sheets of his perfectly made bed. 

“Letter for Greg,” Mycroft replied without taking his gaze off the page. “I’m telling him about the rehearsals and that awful film that we saw in the cinema. I think that he would really like that book you were reading last night.”

“I didn’t think that Greg would be into Robert Graves, seems a bit above his level,” Alex said, helping himself to one of Mycroft’s cigarettes from the bedside table. “Don’t you think that it’s weird that you are writing to Greg? You are going to see him during the weekend and you were on the phone with him last night. It was rude of him to call when we were watching Doctor Who.”

Mycroft lifted his head up from the letter. “What do you mean that it is _‘above his level?’_ ” Mycroft asked, somewhat coldly. “It is not ‘weird’ that I write to Greg. I do not comment about how strange it is that you play that silly Dragons and Caves game with your friends all night.”

Alex lay on his bed and placed his feet up on the quilt with his shoes on. Mycroft wrinkled his nose in disgust but did not say anything. “Dungeons and Dragons isn’t stupid and it’s a great game. I think it’s something you’d really enjoy if you tried it, Myc.”

“I have no intention to play a board game,” Mycroft sighed. “What do you mean about Robert Graves being above Greg’s level? He was writing about his thoughts on the Canterbury Tales. He was talking about Virginia Woolf when he was on the phone.”

He shoved Greg’s letter into Alex’s hand to make a point. “Greg studied English at Trinity,” he said. “He is certainly not stupid like you think he is. He wrote his dissertation on the works of Doctor Johnson.”

“Not to be rude or anything, but Greg doesn’t come off as being the sharpest tool in the box,” Alex said. “He comes across as if the most complicated thing that he reads is car magazines.”

“Do you have a problem with Greg?” Mycroft asked, tidying up his letter writing set and putting it in his desk drawer. 

  
“I just don’t like him that much,” Alex said with a shrug. “He seems to have a problem with me and I’m a bit fed up of having to share my boyfriend with him. I’m starting to think that you fancy him with the amount of time that you write to him and are on the phone with him. I don’t do that with any of my friends, Mycroft.”

Mycroft stood up and started to gather his notebooks and his bag, his cheeks burning. “I am not discussing this anymore,” he said defensively. “I have a seminar that I need to attend.”

“Does he even know that we’re together?” Alex asked, letting out a bitter chuckle. “That I’m not just your ‘friend?’”

His room suddenly felt rather claustrophobic and Mycroft suddenly wished that he knew how to respond in this situation and that he was more socially capable. It was so much easier when interacting with Greg, who understood him better than most people and didn’t mind his social inadequacies or when he stumbled socially. He had coached him gently on how to be somewhat social and had been supportive in his endeavours; Mycroft hardly had to use his list of conversation starters since he returned to university. 

“I’m going to be late,” Mycroft managed to utter, his voice tighter than he would have liked it. “I’m not going to end my friendship with Greg.”

Alex stood up from the bed, his thin lips twisted into a small smile. He kissed Mycroft before walking out the door, the kiss tasting bitter and almost sour from the cigarette that he had just smoked, he left a smudge of bicycle oil on Mycroft’s cheek. 

  
“We can talk about it later,” he said. “Fancy going out for dinner tonight or to the union with the lads from drama society?”

Mycroft had little desire to go to union or for dinner but reluctantly nodded to avoid any arguments. Alex usually moaned that he spent too much time in his room studying or reading and that he could be rather boring at times. 

  
“I’ll see you later,” Mycroft said quietly, a forced smile on his face, dropping it when the door closed and Alex walked out.

The feeling of claustrophobia left him the moment Alex left the room. 

* * *

It was a job at the end of the day; it was hardly the most glamorous one in the world, but he liked it and he got to listen to music all night. It hardly mattered that it was at a gay bar in Soho.

He had stumbled upon the job when he was looking for a bookshop around the area - there was a sign in the window that they were looking for part-time bar staff and, well, he needed the money. His hours in the shop that he was working on had been cut and London was stupidly expensive even if he was sharing the rent and the bills with Mycroft. 

It didn’t matter that it was a gay bar. The music was good and he liked his co-workers. It had been somewhat of a culture shock to see two men kiss for the first time and men dancing with one another, holding hands. He had never seen anything like it before; he hardly knew anyone who was gay or seemed to be openly gay before he started working in the club, and he had certainly never seen a drag queen before. The only gay man that he knew was one of his sister’s friends from her hairdressing course. Their dad never liked it when Mark was brought over for dinner and he always made a point of going to the pub when he was around and called him ‘ _the poof,’_ when he was talked about. 

He knew that his dad would treat him the same if he ever mentioned that he didn’t mind too much when the men at the bar flirted with him; he rather enjoyed it, actually. He had even been given a phone number from one of the regulars in the bar and he had debated if he was going to give Will a call and meet up with him for a drink.

Tony told him that he should meet up with Will when they were on their break together one evening, that he should get over his nerves and just go out for a drink. 

Greg considered it for some time, not quite sure if Tony was telling him that he should go to stop his complaining about Mycroft and his realisation that he was quite possibly bisexual. The realisation that he liked blokes and was bisexual was rather anti-climatic if he had to be honest and it felt as if he was telling Tony his shoe size when he confessed to him that he fancied blokes. 

He felt rather cool being a part of the same club as the rockstars and the authors that he admired, but it wouldn’t be something that he felt comfortable to be sharing with anyone outside the walls of the club or Soho, not quite yet anyway. He was the same when it came to his job; he told his parents and Mycroft that he was working in a cafe - no one ever cared when it came to cafes. 

> * * *

Mycroft did not know why he had even agreed to go to Soho that evening with Alex. He had little desire to go out that evening and would have preferred to spend the evening in the library with his coursework and do some reading for his dissertation. 

Alex had insisted that they should go to a club that evening and that they should do something fun. Mycroft rarely had the desire to go to a club, let alone a gay bar, but decided that he would rather go to one than take his chances in a normal club with Alex; he wouldn’t get any grief or stares if Alex kissed him or wanted to hold his hand. 

He had lost track of Alex when he had first entered the club, quickly disappearing into the sea of dancing men to get a drink at the bar. He had been gone for over twenty minutes and Mycroft couldn’t see him, having been somewhat deafened by the music. He didn’t mind too much, he rather liked _Wham!_ and almost felt like dancing to some songs, but instead sat down at the table and tried to read the book that he brought under the strobe lights.

He had been asked to dance or if he wanted to get a drink by several men. A good looking, blond and somewhat stocky man, who was shorter than he was and had had a bit too much to drink, a medical student judging by his hands, and the other, a young man who was not his type and had eye makeup on. Mycroft did feel rather tempted to ask him how he managed to get his eyeliner like that; he did have to do his own makeup for Lady Bracknell and wanted to look good on stage. 

After half an hour, Mycroft wanted nothing more than to leave when it became rather clear that Alex was probably not ordering drinks at the bar for the two of them. He found it impossible to read or to even enjoy the music and wanted to go to the flat. He knew that there was a chance that Greg would be out that evening on a date or clubbing himself, but he knew that even being in the flat would put him in a better mood than he was currently in.

He shoved his book in his bag and went to the bar, deciding that he deserved a drink after the evening that he’d had. He decided that he needed a strong one when he saw Alex dancing with someone else, his arms wrapped around the others’ neck and the two entwined around another, swaying together. 

Mycroft sighed and tried to ignore the bitter taste in his mouth. He knew that it’d be something they’d have to talk about later on. 

He wanted nothing more than to go to the flat and speak to Greg. He knew that Greg wouldn’t be able to make the situation better, but he knew that talking to him would put him in better spirits and fight away any melancholy that was threatening to fall upon him. 

He ordered a drink at the bar, his eyes glued in the direction of where Alex was dancing in the back of the bar. He hardly knew how on earth he would bring up the conversation with Alex; they had tried to talk about his friendship with Greg but it had led to an argument. Alex decided that they should go out that evening to blow out some steam; he blamed the pressure from exams and the play for their spat. 

There was a tap on his shoulder and a familiar voice in his ear. “I’ve got your drink, mate, want to set up a tab?” 

Mycroft shook his head and turned around to get his drink, he dropped his glass once he saw Greg’s face behind the bar. He could only utter out an apology before he left the bar as quickly as he could, stumbling slightly. 

Without even a moment of hesitation, Greg was on the other side of the bar and followed him outside. 

* * *

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Greg said, somewhat redundantly, breaking the uneasy and uncomfortable, almost oppressive silence that had grown between them

Mycroft hadn’t uttered a word since they had laid eyes on another in the club, the colour drained from his face. He was uncharacteristically nervous, his hand shaking as he tried to light up a cigarette, causing Greg to reach over and do it for him.

  
“I needed to use the phone,” he uttered eventually, his voice strained. “The phone box wasn’t working and I was going to ask to use the phone. Why are you...in Soho?”

  
“Needed to use the phone as well,” Greg said with a shrug, an attempt of a joke. “You know that there are probably other pubs that would have let you use the phone, not just this particular one.”

Mycroft let out a bitter laugh and shook his head. “I guess that the cat is out of the bag, isn’t it?”

“Don’t let it spoil your night,” Greg said. “There are some nice blokes that you could have a dance with...I don’t mind who you dance with if that’s anything.” 

Mycroft sighed and snuffed out his cigarette and placed his head in his hands. 

  
“Did you come here with someone tonight?” Greg asked, not quite sure what he was meant to say. 

It didn’t bother him that Mycroft liked blokes in the slightest and he had little reason to feel upset or bothered by the situation; he believed that he felt more put out for the fact Mycroft hadn’t told him and felt the need to keep secrets while he told Mycroft pretty much everything, no matter how mortified he was and how much he knew that he should have just confided in his journal. 

Mycroft sighed and wrapped his jacket around himself as a cold wind made itself known, running itself down to Greg’s bones. He wished that he stayed in the club long enough to get his coat instead of standing out in the cold in just his black work-shirt and jeans. 

“I was,” he said with a heavy sigh. “It’s complicated with Alex.”

Greg opened his mouth and closed it again, he swore quietly under his breath, cursing himself for being so stupid. “Is he your...boyfriend?” he asked. 

“I don’t know,” Mycroft sighed, shaking his head. “I was going to tell you eventually.”

“I thought that he was your friend,” Greg grimaced. “I was getting jealous for weeks thinking that you got yourself a brand new best friend especially when you talked or had written about what you were up to or why you stayed at university. I’ve been such a prick to him, I’m so sorry.”

Mycroft shook his head and reached out to grab his hand, clinging onto it as if it was the only thing that was keeping him on his feet against the harsh cold winds. “I should have told you sooner...I wasn’t ready and I didn’t want to jeopardize our friendship. I would hate to lose you over something as trivial as me being...a poof.” 

Greg shook his head and shuffled awkwardly on his feet. He offered Mycroft another cigarette and lighted up one for himself, wishing that he knew what to say. I’m so sorry about trying to find you a girl to dance with…I don’t mind helping you to find a bloke.”

“Thank you, but no,” Mycroft shook his head and offered him a shy smile. “I do appreciate the offer though.”

Greg scruffed his toe against the ground and shoved his spare hand in his pocket, not quite sure what he was meant to do or say. “You’re still my best mate,” he eventually said. “Nothing’s ever going to change that.”

“I hope that nothing’s going to change between us,” Mycroft said, somewhat nervously. “I know that it might be...uncomfortable for you. I can move out if you-”

Greg cut him off before Mycroft could finish the end of his ridiculous sentence. “That is possibly the most stupid thing that I’ve ever heard you say. You are my best friend and I’d be an awful mate if I let something as trivial as your shoe size change that.” 

Mycroft let out a relieved sigh and leaned his head against the brick wall. He nudged Greg’s foot with his shoe. “What are you doing here?” he asked. “I thought that you worked in a cafe.”

Greg shrugged and shoved his hands into his pockets, so deep that he could almost make himself disappear into them. “It’s a long story,” he said with a chuckle. “I needed the money and it would raise fewer eyebrows saying that I worked in a cafe than in a gay bar.”

Mycroft let out a genuine laugh, the first time that Greg had heard him laugh in weeks. It made him wonder how long keeping this secret had weighed Mycroft down; he had been increasingly withdrawn over the last few weeks, and it made Greg wish that he felt comfortable enough to tell him earlier. 

“I’ll tell you over some chips. I think that we both could do with some after the evening we’ve had,” Greg suggested. 

“That would be wonderful,” Mycroft grinned.

“Alex is allowed to come as well,” Greg added as an afterthought. “Your boyfriends are allowed to come to the flat, it’s only fair. Claire did basically move in.”

Mycroft threw his bag over his shoulder and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Alex is a long story,” he sighed. “I don’t think he’ll be available, I saw him dancing with someone else.”

Greg wrapped an arm around Mycroft’s shoulder. “He isn’t worth your time,” he said. “I think that he’s just one of the frogs that you need to kiss until you find the right person. Fate will help you find them.”

  
“I do wish that I had your optimism,” Mycroft murmured. “I am convinced that the only thing that fate will guarantee me is a portion of chips.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, commenting and Kudos, I wouldn't be writing without the encouragment of everyone!


	11. December 1988 - A Boy who Reads.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'He still could not believe what he had read. Greg had never said anything about liking men before or even gave any indication that he had liked them. He was usually rather good when it came to deducing men like himself and was so very rarely wrong. He would have thought that he would have been able to at least deduce if Greg liked men, it should have been obvious; they did live together! '

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited by NaiveSherlloy.

_ Compton's,  _

_ Soho,  _

_ 14th of December.  _

_ Dear Mycroft,  _

_ I hope that you are doing well and those chocolates that I’ve sent with the last letter have helped cheer you up. I don’t know how but chocolate always helped me when I had essays and exam revision to get done; I ate a whole Cadbury Milk Tray on the last day of writing my dissertation and a whole packet of custard creams to help me cope with the stress.  _

_  
_ _ I don’t actually know how you’re managing to do everything, mate. I could barely cope with doing my coursework and you’ve got a play, a job and you’re dealing with that awful you-know-who. Have you said anything to him? Have things ended? My offer of helping you draft up a letter or a script to end things is still there.  _

_ You don’t need someone like him in your life. He’s an absolute prick, and I should have just told you from the start. I don’t like how he looked at me as if I was something that he had just stepped in on the pavement. He should have been thankful that I had only gotten him sent out of the club the other week after what he had done to you. You should never be treated like that, not by him or anyone. I know that you don’t think it, but you are important and you do matter. You shouldn’t have to put up with someone treating you like that, I would never treat you like that.  _

_ I think that me and you should go out sometime. We can go to a gay bar and I could help you find a nice bloke, one who isn’t a massive arse. Do you have a particular type that you fancy? How does one ask another bloke out? Who pays for dinner or a drink when it’s two men on a date? I know that these are silly questions... _

_ I was mostly writing to see if you had any plans for Christmas? I’ve had a falling out with dad and we’re not currently talking to one another. I know that it’ll upset mum that I’m not coming home for Christmas this year but I don’t want to upset her more by arguing with dad over the dinner table and spoiling everything for her.  _

_ I don’t regret opening my mouth especially as he was making those awful comments about gay people when the news was talking about HIV and AIDS. It was just a nasty argument and I’m not sure if he is more upset about me working in the gay bar or liking blokes. I ended up storming out before mum had even put dinner on the table.  _

_ I just thought that I would let you know before mum phones you. It’s sweet of her to do that, and I’d be expecting a Christmas card from her soon as she did ask for your address. You don’t need to worry about me and dad not speaking, we’ve hardly gotten on since I was a teenager and even less so when I went to uni. He thinks that I’m above myself that I didn’t want to be stuck in the same factory as him.  _

_ I’m going to be on my own for Christmas this year and I was wondering if you didn’t have plans, would you like to spend it with me? It could just be a small thing in the flat, we don’t even need to have a turkey or anything and just have chips if you wanted. I know that you were wanting to see your brother and it is a big thing to ask, so we could always do something on boxing day or just right after Christmas if you have plans.  _

_ Have you had much luck with getting in contact with your brother by the way? I hope that he hasn’t been expelled from school after that experiment of his. Is he coming to the play? Should I be terrified to meet him after everything that you’ve told me about him? _

_ I’m so excited about seeing you on stage, even if you do have to wear the silly hat. I think that you’ll be amazing, and I’ve been so excited that I’ve been reading the play and Wilde all week. I should be there early enough to meet up with you before you need to be backstage.  _

_ All the best,  _

_ Greg.  _

  
  


* * *

Mycroft had to re-read the sentence several times, not quite believing what he had just read. He believed that he had misread Greg’s squiggly handwriting when he had read that particular sentence and had to read it three more times just to make sure. 

He still could not believe what he had read. Greg had never said anything about liking men before or even gave any indication that he had liked them. He was usually rather good when it came to deducing men like himself and was so very rarely wrong. He would have thought that he would have been able to at least deduce if Greg liked men, it should have been obvious; they did live together! 

Mycroft spent a good portion of his morning going over the signs that could have possibly indicated that Greg liked men. He knew that he should have noticed something; he did have the James Dean and David Bowie posters that he had in his bedroom wall and he did enjoy reading Oscar Wilde, and he had always been rather vocal in his dislike and opinions towards section twenty-eight and any homophobic comments that were made on the television. 

Mycroft scolded himself for thinking that Greg’s frequent visits to the gay bar were just because of work and that he had been picking up extra shifts. He knew that he should have connected the dots at least, Greg had brought home leaflets and napkins with men’s phone numbers on them that were from different bars from the one that he worked at. 

He had been so awfully caught up in his studies that he barely had time to think about anything else. He barely let his eyes leave his books and often walked around the flat, somewhat oblivious to what was happening in his surroundings or what he was doing; he had burned his dinner several times due to being distracted with his books and developed the habit of leaving half-drunk cups of tea lying around in the kitchen. 

It didn’t help that he struggled to deduce Greg; he was the only person whom he had difficulties with and it had alarmed him considerably when he had first met Greg. It was the first time that he had come across someone who he could not deduce.

He had never put much thought towards that kiss on the cheek that Greg had given him in the park that evening until that morning. He knew that he should have seen more in that kiss, there had to be more to it. There just had to be. 

Mycroft tried to ignore the surge of hope that built up in his chest as he read the letter over breakfast. He had neglected his toast in favour of Greg’s letter for being so absorbed with it, letting it get soggy and cold. 

_ Dear Greg,  _

_ You have never mentioned that you like men before… _

  
Mycroft sighed and scrunched up the piece of paper that he was writing on. It was his fifth attempt at writing a letter to Greg and he could hardly write more than several sentences, not quite sure what to say. 

He didn’t even know if it was polite to even enquire about Greg liking men, even if it was the only part of the letter that Mycroft could only concentrate on. He re-read the letter again with great care, trying to find another part of the letter that piqued his curiosity but struggled to do so and found himself asking Greg about his attraction to men once more. 

  
He hardly knew why he was asking and he knew he would be disappointed. He knew that Greg would not be interested in him, even if the likelihood of it happening had increased slightly. Mycroft spent several moments working out the mathematical probability of it to happen in his head. The chances he had were still disappointingly low, but they were an improvement of what had been previously. 

He re-read the letter one more time, properly taking the time to read what Greg had actually rewritten to him. The realization that Greg was going to be spending Christmas alone crashed over him like a bucket of ice water over his head. 

He knew that he could never be as brave as Greg and let his parents know. He knew that the consequences would be worse than missing Christmas dinner. 

He managed to make out the date in Greg’s scrawled handwriting, the letter was written from several days ago. He had spoken to Greg on the phone several times since the letter was written and he had not mentioned anything to him. Greg had changed the subject whenever Mycroft asked about his parents and how the dinner went, deciding to talk about Alex instead. He had been cheerful on the phone or at least did a rather good job at pretending to be. 

He would have to go to the flat, there were no questions about it. He had a seminar that he was meant to go to that afternoon and a drama society meeting but they felt unimportant now. He knew that it would be easier to just phone Greg or to write him a letter, but they felt rather impersonal and detached, despite how much care he put into his words. 

As much as he loved Greg’s letters and phone calls, they felt like poor imitations of the real thing ever since he moved in with Greg and lived with him on the weekends. Mycroft sometimes wondered and even hoped that Greg felt the same way about him, or at least preferred his company to what he had written on several sheets of paper. 

He had never missed a lecture before or had ever been absent from school in his life, and he had always disapproved when other students or his brother deliberately did not attend school but found himself more willing to do so for Greg. He knew that Greg would do the same for him without a moment of hesitation if he needed him. 

It only made sense to do so for Greg. 

* * *

There had never been a more beautiful sight that he could have walked into. It was a sight that he wanted to have painted and placed in a frame in his mind palace so that he could admire it every day. There was nothing in the world as beautiful as Greg reading.

  
He was sat on the sofa, almost curled up on himself with a thick paperback in his hands, fully absorbed into his book, occasionally taking a puff of his cigarette even if he had been talking about quitting recently. He never looked up from his book as Mycroft walked into the living room, his fingers rapidly turning through the pages. He was wearing the reading glasses that he was too embarrassed to wear, only wearing them when it was just the two of them in the flat. He was rather insecure about wearing them around his friends or the girls that sometimes came to the flat. 

  
There was hardly anything in the world that looked more beautiful than Greg reading. He always had a particular fondness for boys who read. He was convinced that they experienced every shade of each emotion as he swept through thousands of pages of immense joy, heartbreak and pain, his eyes devouring through each and every letter. A part of him believed that he would be able to see the unfinished and unhappy stories that were inside Mycroft and that he would at least try to give him a happy ending, even if it was unlikely to happen. 

Mycroft shrugged his coat off, folding it neatly on the back of the kitchen chair and switched on the kettle. He did not know if he could offer much advice or comfort to Greg but he could make tea, it was always fitting for any situation. Greg had praised his tea-making abilities in the past and it was something that Mycroft took pride in. 

“You aren’t meant to be here,” Greg said, glancing up from the pages of his book. “Aren’t you supposed to be in a lecture right now?”

“It ended up getting cancelled,” Mycroft said, his nose wrinkling slightly. “It was only politics and I’ve handed in my essay and I’m ahead of the reading.”

“You just didn’t want to see Alex,” Greg stated. “You’re avoiding him. Have you told him that it’s over? I know he’s trying to make it up to you but you shouldn’t have to put up with him. What did he tell you? It was a really awful excuse.”

Mycroft tossed the teaspoon into the sink with more force than necessary. He went into the cupboard and pulled out the chocolate digestives; the situation with Alex and his university stress had him reaching for sweet things recently.

“That he thought that he was dancing with me because he was drunk,” Mycroft grimaced, “apparently the man he was dancing with looked a lot like me under the lights.”

Greg closed his paperback with a loud thud and threw it onto the sofa. “That is the shittest excuse I’ve ever heard,” Greg grumbled. “You aren’t putting up with it. I know that he tried to make it up to you by getting you flowers and got his mum to make you biscuits but it doesn’t make up for it.”

“I never knew that you had a say in my love life,” Mycroft said dryly as he brought two mugs of tea and the chocolate digestives to the living room.

“I don’t really,” Greg faltered slightly. “I just want what’s best for you, though. I just don’t think you should put up with it. You could do much better than Alex.”

Mycroft let out an undignified snort. “Who do you suggest then?”

Greg opened up his mouth, the words seemed to be at the tip of his tongue but was unable to get them out. There was almost a pained expression on his face and there was something behind his eyes that lingered even if he tried to hide it with a cheeky grin. “Harrison Ford,” he said. “You properly fancy him, not sure if you prefer him as Han Solo or Indiana Jones, though.”

“I do not,” Mycroft protested, his ears turning scarlet. “I said that after I had been drinking, it doesn't count.”

“It’s Indiana Jones, isn’t it?” Greg teased. “Hunky archaeologist with a bullwhip, definitely your type, Myc.”

“I did not come here to get teased,” Mycroft grumbled, trying to keep his voice level. “I missed my seminar to talk to you. I read your letter this morning.”

“I didn’t think it was that important for you to come over,” Greg shrugged. “You’re wanting my help to break up with Alex?” 

  
“I was wanting to see how you were,” Mycroft said. “I’m sorry to hear about what happened with your father.”

Greg’s grin faltered for a moment but quickly recovered. “I don’t think it was worth you getting a train all the way here to see how I am,” he said. “They do have phones for a reason, Myc.” 

Mycroft tried to hold in his sigh as Greg tried to change the topic, trying to get his opinions of Wilkie Colin’s  _ The Moonstone. _

“Is liking men a new thing?” He asked somewhat redundantly, not quite sure what to say and stumbling awfully. “You’ve never mentioned it before.”

  
Greg shook his head and shrugged. “I’ve have done since I was twelve and watched  _ Rebel Without A Cause, _ ” he said. “I just never thought that it was a big deal and it felt a bit like telling you my shoe size.”

Mycroft opened up his mouth and closed it again, not quite sure what to say. He sighed and tried to ignore the small surge of envy that Greg was at relative ease with sexuality and seemed to have barely struggled to come to terms with it unlike him who struggled. 

“I thought you would have at least mentioned it to me,” Mycroft said. “I did tell you that I am gay.”

“I did tell you, I mentioned it in a letter,” Greg shrugged. “I just never saw it as a big deal. I like good looking people, I fancy who I fancy.”

  
“Do you want to talk about it?” Mycroft asked. “You told your parents-”

Greg shook his head and removed his glasses, placing them on the coffee table. He stood up and put on his leather jacket. “Fancy going out for a drink?” He asked before Mycroft could finish his sentence. 

* * *

  
  


“It’s different with girls, I know what I’m doing with them, you know,” Greg said as he picked through the bowl of chips. “With blokes, I’m clueless. How did Alex ask you out?”

It was the first time that Greg had become somewhat animated since they had made their way into Soho. He had been unusually quiet, his charming grin was always out when Mycroft spoke to him, although this time his cheerful behaviour was rather artificial. He had caught a glimpse of the cloud of melancholy over Greg when he had ordered chips for them at the counter. He only allowed himself to look sad and his smile to fade when no one could see him. 

Mycroft wiped his fingers on his napkin. “I did not know that he was asking me out on a date. He asked me if I wanted to get a drink and I assumed it was with the rest of the drama society. I found out that it was just the two of us and I assumed that he wanted to discuss a politics essay we had.”

“How did you not realise that he was asking you out?” Greg asked. 

“I never thought that anyone would be interested or that I would ever be asked out before,” Mycroft shrugged.

“Who wouldn’t be interested in you? I’m-” Greg asked. He cleared his throat before he spoke again, “You’re...brilliant.”

“Thank you…” Mycroft said, not quite sure what to say. “You’re brilliant as well.”

“So what happened when you finally realised that it was a date?” Greg asked. “How did you know?” 

“He kissed me,” Mycroft answered. “We ended up backstage and he showed how all the lights worked and then he kissed me, you know the rest.”

“Is that it?” Greg asked. “I thought that it wouldn’t be as simple as that. I’ve just been with girls, it was much easier and it was less fuss, you know.”

Mycroft fiddled with the condiment packets, separating the tomato sauce from the mustard packets. “I think that you’re brave for telling your family,” he murmured. 

Greg let out a bitter laugh. “It feels a bit stupid with the fuss I made,” he said. “I’m not going to let it get me down. I’m not going to stay in a situation where I can’t be myself because I’ll be unhappy. It hurts at the moment but I know that it’s going to be better in the long run; sometimes you just need to walk away.”

Mycroft didn’t say anything for a long moment, not quite sure what he was meant to say. He wished that he could be brave enough to allow himself to be honest with his parents or at least tell Greg what he really felt. He knew that he would never summon up the courage to even speak. 

  
“It’s not all bad,” Greg said. “Mum is lovely about everything even if she is upset about Christmas. She’s accepting, but she’s been going on about Susie’s friend from hairdressing college as well.” 

“Your mother is wonderful,” Mycroft replied, he reached over the table and squeezed Greg’s hand. “She was ever so kind when I told her.”

“Mum knows that you are gay?” Greg asked. “When did she find that out?”

“When we had Sunday lunch with your family,” he answered. 

“Mum knew that you were gay before I did?” Greg asked in disbelief. 

“It was that or I have her set me up with one of her friend’s daughters,” Mycroft said. “I thought that telling her that I liked men was preferable, she has however been asking if I’m interested in your sister’s friend, the one on the hairdressing course.”

Greg laughed for the first time since Mycroft had arrived in London, a genuine smile was on his face. Mycroft joined in, quietly chuckling. The noise of laughter filling up the nearly empty bar. 

The laughter died down and they sat in a comfortable silence with another. It was one of the things that he liked about his friendship with Greg, the two could sit in silence with another, reading their own books, and he felt as content as if he’d had a wonderful conversation with Greg. 

“I do not have any plans for Christmas,” Mycroft said, breaking the silence between them. “I can stay in London with you or we can do whatever you would like.”

Greg placed his hand under his chin and picked at his chips. “Are you not wanting to see your family?” he asked.

Mycroft shook his head. “Sherlock is apparently staying at school...He’s got a dead owl that he is currently ‘experimenting on,’ I am too afraid to ask and have little desire to find out. I rather avoid the rest of the family...it’s for the best.”

Greg had a concerned look on his face, and Mycroft didn’t like how it was directed at him. “Do they know?” he asked. “Is that why you avoid them?” 

Mycroft shook his head and let out a bitter laugh. “If only it was as simple as that.” 

“Care to tell me?”

Mycroft shook his head once more and started to organise the salt and the paper sachets and folded the extra napkins that the waitress had brought to the table. “It’s far too complicated.” 

  
“Isn’t life meant to be complicated?” Greg asked. “Everyone is going through something. When you think about it; life is just a matter of going through stuff until you aren't.”

“How very profound,” Mycroft commented with a raised eyebrow. “You should write it down.”

  
“You’re the one who’s meant to be writing a book,” Greg replied with a smile. “You have my permission to use it.”

Greg stood up and ordered drinks from the bar, seeming to be in better spirits than he had been before. Mycroft knew that there would be much more to talk about, and he knew that tea and chips could only alleviate so much melancholy. 

“What do you want to do for Christmas?” Greg asked once he was back at the table, two shot glasses were placed on the table. “I could get us a turkey and mum could probably make us an extra fruit cake.” 

  
Mycroft thought carefully for a moment, his bottom lip placed in between his teeth. “We should go on holiday,” he suggested. 

  
“With what money?” Greg snorted. “I would love to but we live in London, we’ve got no money.”

Mycroft chewed on his bottom lip. He knew that Rudy would surely allow him to use the cottage; it hardly been used and it lay abandoned for the majority of the year, only being used on the rare occasion that Rudy left London. “We’ve got a family cottage in France. It’s small and it’s in the countryside. I think that it would be enjoyable to spend Christmas there.”

“You have a cottage?” Greg asked in amazement. “Most people only have one house, if even that.” 

“It’s only a small cottage,” Mycroft said, rather defensively. He never did enjoy talking about money and felt rather self-conscious about it with Greg; it was a topic that he tried to avoid and never mentioned how he paid the majority of the rent and the bills, he knew that it would cause an argument. 

“I don’t care,” Greg said with a grin. “I need a holiday, the both of us do after everything that’s happened. Me and dad, you with all your uni work and Alex. It will do us a lot of good.”

  
He pushed one of the glasses over to Mycroft and clinked them together. “To the best Christmas in a long time,” he beamed. “To best mates.”

He placed the glass to his lips and drained it once go. Mycroft mimicked his action, pulling a face at the strong drink, trying to ignore the feeling that spending Christmas with Greg would not be as simple as he hoped it would be. 


	12. December 1988-  Green Carnations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Greg could count the freckles on his nose with ease and smell his aftershave. He noticed how Mycroft’s brow was wrinkled in confusion. His hair was slightly ruffled from running his fingers through it and there was the smudge of eyeliner by his left eye. He was the most beautiful thing that Greg had ever seen. 
> 
> “Has anyone ever told you that you are beautiful?” Greg asked, moving closer to Mycroft. 
> 
> “What are you talking about?” Mycroft asked. “I’m nothing special.”'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted earlier than I had expected or planned, I needed to cheer myself up after a very long day at work and finding out that where I live is going into tier three restrictions.

_December 1988._

Greg frowned at the selection of flowers that he had been looking at for the last ten minutes trying to pick the best bunch. He had never been in a florist before and had only bought flowers from the petrol station or the corner shop for his mum or a girlfriend in the past, usually when he was in trouble or as a last-minute mother’s day present.

He never had to buy flowers for a bloke before and he wasn’t sure what the right ones were. He wasn’t sure if Mycroft liked flowers or even had the capabilities to look after a plant and remember to water it, he could barely remember to drink the cups of tea he made or get something to eat when he became absorbed into his coursework or a book that he was reading, hardly lifting his eyes from the pages. 

Greg half believed that the main reason that Mycroft went to the flat on the weekends from university and had wanted to live with him in the first place was to get food cooked for him and to pick up more paperbacks to read when he had free moments at university- taking six of them each time, he went through one a day but could read two books from cover to cover with easy on a quiet day. 

Greg didn’t mind that Mycroft only seemed to come to the flat to get fed and to borrow his books, the thrill of living with Mycroft had not dulled after months together and the occasional argument they had. It did get awfully lonely in the flat at times and he still hadn’t really made any friends since he left home.

  
He struggled with it more than he cared to admit. He never really had to worry about making friends before, everyone knew who he was and decided that they liked him. He barely had to think about who he was or what he liked, it had been decided for him. It only seemed to matter at school that he was good at football and that he was funny, nothing else seemed to matter. He was teased when he did well in classes or when he went to the library, pretending to be stupid and acted out in class to keep their approval. He was as relieved as his teachers when his friends did not go to class and when they eventually stopped going to school, allowing himself to get his coursework done and to read.

He struggled in the first year of university, he managed to hide his struggle well. It was easy enough to pretend to be confident, alcohol helped to smooth down any bumps when he was socialising. He hardly knew who he was as a person and it was easier to fall into the part that he played at school. He knew that he didn’t fit in and it was easier to join the football team and develop a reputation for being funny than to figure out who he was. It allowed him to blend it and no one ever asked him who he was or he was doing. It was a blessing no matter how frustrated with the situation, it allowed him to pretend that his problems didn’t exist. 

  
It was different with Mycroft, he felt like the first person who had properly seen him and wanted to know who he was even if Greg hadn’t figured it out and was still trying to connect the dots. 

He looked at the roses and decided that they were perhaps a bit too much. He considered tulips or chrysanthemums but they didn’t feel right. He didn’t know if it was too much to buy Mycroft flowers for the dressing room. The idea had come into his head when he was at work the night before, one of the regular’s boyfriend brought him a bunch of flowers to make up for a fight they had. He thought that it would be something that Mycroft would appreciate, he doubted that anyone had bought him flowers before. 

“Are you looking for anything in particular?” the middle-aged woman behind the counter asked. “You’ve been standing by the tulips for ten minutes with a confused expression on your face.”

Greg shook his head and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Not really,” he shrugged. “I’m trying to decide what is the right thing. What needs the least attention and care?”

  
“Does your girlfriend lack a green thumb?” 

Greg shook his head, pretending to examine the price of a flower pot. “I doubt that he can remember to water a plant. My flatmate tends to forget that he is cooking half the time,” he explained, “everything tends to burn once he gets distracted.”

The woman giggled and walked over to him, her apron smelling strongly of pollen which made Greg’s eyes water. “He sounds like he could do with a cactus, they hardly need any care,” she said. “What’s the occasion?”

“A play,” he replied. “I just wanted to give him something. It’s his first time on stage and he could do with sometimes nice to look at.”

She carefully started to go through the flowers, picking one up by the stem and offering it to Greg to smell, asking him of his thoughts for each flower and what he thought of the colour. 

  
“Is it Shakesphere your friend is doing?” she asked. 

  
Greg shook his head. “Wilde.” 

  
She gave him a knowing grin and went into the back of the shop without a word. She came back after several minutes, handing him a bouquet of green carnations. 

* * *

  
  
  


Mycroft had little idea of how Uncle Rudy had convinced Sherlock to come along to see the play. He could hardly believe his eyes when he saw Sherlock in the audience with his Walkman, looking as if he would rather be watching paint dry. He frowned when he realised that Sherlock had shot up several inches since he had last seen him over the summer and seemed to have lost more weight, his cheeks sunken in and dark circles were under his eyes. 

He tried to ignore the nagging feeling that Sherlock getting into this state was partly his fault, he had moved in with Greg and stopped his visits the family home, it did prevent him from keeping a close eye on Sherlock and making sure that he was eating. He had phoned several times a week and written letters but Sherlock never replied to them and always put down the phone once he realised it was him without a word. 

He fiddled with his costume, his dress suddenly felt as it had gotten tighter around his middle. He left backstage and went into a storage room that had become his makeshift dressing room. The other members of the drama society, they could even be counted as almost friends, never teased him about his appearance or made comment about his weight but he felt shy about undressing around them. 

He sat at the wobbling chair and arranged the cosmetics that were on the ink-stained and scratched table. He powdered his nose once more in the attempt to distract the surge of nerves that had run through him. He had been fine in the rehearsals but having an audience, an audience with Sherlock in it, seemed to make this whole play feel more than a game of dressing up. 

“Looking great Mike!” James said, fiddling with his cravat, poking his head into the door. “Is there anyone in the audience for you tonight? I’ve just seen my mum”

Mycroft looked over his shoulder and gave him a polite smile, his voice not giving away a hint of nerves. “My brother is in the audience, third row in the middle with a Walkman, you will not miss him. He’s with my uncle and I’ve got a friend coming to see me.”

James stood by the door, fiddling with cravat and struggling to tie it despite Mycroft’s instructions. “I was meant to say that there is someone asking for you- might be your friend, he’s called Greg? Tall, dark hair and has got a leather jacket on, sound familiar?”

A smile instantly grew on Mycroft’s face at the mention of Greg. He stood up quickly to try and find him, stepping on his dress and stumbling forwards. He tried to regain his composure in front of James, who smirked at him. 

  
“Why do you have that expression on your face?” Mycroft asked, straightening the front of his dress from imaginary wrinkles. He started to tie James’s cravat for him when it became evident that he would not be able to do it himself despite his instructions. 

“You never moved that quickly for Alex,” James teased. 

“He is my best friend,” Mycroft said, flustered. “I am not involved with Alex, you were there when I told him the news. It was highly unprofessional for him to go home right before the play was to start.”

“I shouldn’t keep you from seeing your friend, show starts in ten minutes and I don’t want you to keep us from starting,” James teased, clapping him on the shoulder. “Thanks for your help. You are going to smash it tonight!”

Mycroft gave him a shy smile, his cheeks redding at the praise, murmuring something similar in return. He tried to ignore the odd feeling in his stomach at seeing Greg, trying to pass it off as being nerves and from Greg seeing him in a ridiculous outfit. 

His stomach felt tight when he could hear Greg’s voice in the corridor and his footsteps, his boots tapping on the laminated corridors. He soon approached, a bouquet of green carnations and a cactus of all things in his hand. 

He offered them to Mycroft, almost rather unsure about and lacking his usual confidence. A rather shy smile on his face that looked out of place instead of the grin that Mycroft loved, but the smile was still endearing. 

“You look great,” he offered. “The dress suits you.”

Mycroft held the flowers to his nose, gently sniffing them. “Green carnations,” he said. “They are linked to Wilde, he told his friends to wear them during the opening of Lady Windemere’s Fan- it became a symbol, a hint to other men that you were...inclined in that way,” Mycroft rambled on nervously. 

“Must have picked the right flower then,” Greg said somewhat awkwardly, hiding the expression on his face with a grin. “I should have worn one with my outfit, wouldn’t have gone with the leather jacket.”

“You are a lot braver than I am,” Mycroft said, fiddling with his dress. “The cactus? Is there a particular reason for that?” 

Greg placed the plant on the table and shuffled on his feet. He fiddled with the tie that he had worn for the play, looking uncomfortable in it. The material outdated and poorly tied, looking as if he had borrowed his grandfather’s tie. 

Mycroft put the bouquet on the desk and undid Greg’s tie without being asked. He took a step back when he realised how close he was to Greg’s face. He thought that he saw Greg’s breathing stop for a moment and that he licked his lips.

Mycroft cleared his throat and kept his eyes glued to the tie, not trusting himself to look at Greg without begging to be kissed or to kiss him himself. “Why the cactus?” he asked, his voice uncertain. “I can understand the carnations but the cactus is unusual.”

Greg swallowed hard and Mycroft was convinced that he could hear the thump of Greg’s heart in his chest as he accidentally rested his hand there for a moment too long. “They are prickly and they make me think of you- that’s how you come off but you aren’t really,” Greg said, stumbling over the words. “I partly wanted to see how long you could have one without killing it. The florist said that they can handle a lot of neglect and they can endure a lot… It made me think of you really, Myc. If you don’t mind me saying.- you are strong and you can endure a lot, I know that you don’t believe me, but you have to trust me. You’re braver than you think you are.”

Mycroft felt a stinging behind his eyes and a wave of emotion threatened wash over him. No one had ever said anything like that to him before and said it with such sincerity, it almost made him believe Greg with what he said. He finished tying Greg’s tie and fiddled with his collar, his eyes glued to the buttons on Greg’s shirt. 

  
“You are a different person from when I’ve first met you with how confident you’ve become,” Greg said, almost unsure if he should speak. “I do it mean everything I’ve said...you did inspire me to tell my parents that I liked blokes- I couldn’t be that brave on my own.”

“But you are having to spend Christmas with me instead of them as a result of it,” Mycroft murmured.

“Yeah,” Greg said, his voice rather watery. “I don’t have to pretend to be someone that I’m not though. I wouldn’t have done that without you.” 

Mycroft swallowed hard and tried to suppress the tide of emotion. He blamed the fourteen-hour study sessions that he had been having recently and the high amount of university stress for how emotional he had let himself become. 

He struggled to think about what he could say to Greg, sighing to himself when he realised that he stumbled and did not know how to get back up. He and Greg rarely talked about matters like this in person, much preferring to be separated through sheets of paper when they needed to talk about something important. It was always so much easier through a letter; he could put his thoughts together with greater ease when writing and he did not have to see how Greg would react to his problems or what he said, he never did like the fuss. It made his problems feel less real when writing about them. 

There was a knock on the door and he could hear James on the other side, his voice muffled. “You need to be on the stage in five minutes!”

  
  


“I should go and put on my hat and get myself ready,” Mycroft said, taking a step back from Greg even if it felt painful to do so. “Thank you for the flowers...no one has ever bought me them before or a cactus.”

Greg gave him a tight smile and reached over and squeezed his shoulder. “You are going to be brilliant,” he said. “I’m in the second row, you won’t miss me. I’ll come back here once it’s done?”

“Please,” he nodded. “I’d like that.”

“You’ll be needing me to to get you out of your dress,” Greg said, his cheeks turning red once he had realised what he had said.  
  
“The buttons can be fiddly,” Mycroft said, clearing his throat and discreetly trying to cool his cheeks off by wafting his hat. “That would be appreciated.”

Greg murmured an excuse to leave, his cheeks crimson. He could not get out the room quick enough, only stopping to turn around and wish Mycroft good luck once more before he left the room. 

Mycroft sat back down at the table and adjusted his hat in the mirror. He glimpsed at the green carnations on the table and let out a sigh. He knew that he would have to say something soon, he struggled to hold his tongue and he knew that it would be a matter of time until something slipped out. 

He checked the clock in the room, he had two minutes before he had to be there on stage. He went into his bag that he had brought with him and pulled out a notebook, gently tearing out the page and writing a few sentences for Greg. 

He folded the page once had finished, almost afraid to see what he had written and placed it in his coat pocket. If he was as brave as Greg thought he was, he would give it to him one day. He had little idea when it would be.

  
  


* * *

“You need to be quiet,” Mycroft whispered, his voice louder than he intended it to be. “There are people sleeping!”

Greg giggled and took a swig out of the bottle that was in his hand. He leaned heavily against the wall and offered to Mycroft. He tried to take in as much of the university ground as he could even if his thoughts were swimming from all the alcohol that he had that evening, helping himself to glasses of scotch and pinching a bottle of wine for the walk to Mycroft’s accommodation building. 

“Never thought that I would be coming back to this place,” he said, trying to keep his voice at speaking volume. “Thought that once I left this place and went to the real world, I wouldn’t be back.”

“ What made you come back then?” Mycroft asked. 

  
There was still the smudge of eyeliner in his eye despite his hurried attempt to wipe it off to go to the after-party. Greg tried not to count the freckles on his nose and forced himself to look away. He had to do the same when he helped Mycroft out of his dress, he had not expected to see so many freckles on the creamy white canvas on his back. They stood out like stars and he wanted nothing more than to run his fingers over them and feel the muscles of his back. It had been early impossible to focus on the buttons and getting them undone, releasing Mycroft from his maroon gown. 

“You,” Greg shrugged. “I don’t know why you are finding it so surprising. I did just come to your show and put on a stupid tie.”

Mycroft opened his mouth and closed it again. “You did not have to wear the tie,” he said.

Greg let a deep breath and counted to ten when he realised how close Mycroft was standing to him. The two of them leaned against the wall and he just looked so utterly beautiful. He had hoped that seeing Mycroft in his Lady Bracknell costume would have helped to dull some of his attraction towards Mycroft. 

The hat he wore was horrendous and it should have been off-putting but it had little effect. If anything, Greg was positive that he fancied Mycroft even more after watching him on the stage. He could hardly keep his eyes off him, the confidence that radiated off him was intoxicating.

He looked at Mycroft and said as sincerely as he could, “You are the only person who I would willingly wear a tie for.”

Mycroft looked at him with a serious expression on his face before he let out a giggle before he apologised and blamed the glasses of cheap champagne that he had in the after-party. 

Greg took a swig of the bottle and pulled a face. “I don’t know how people can drink it this stuff, it’s awful! I don’t even know why I pinched it.” 

Mycroft examined the label of the bottle in the front light of the student accommodation building. “I much prefer the 1982 Château Le Pavillon to this one, this is 1980,” he said. “Harry must have stolen it out of his parent’s wine cellar among with the scotch. You weren’t complaining about that, even if he was horrified when you did mix it with cola.”

“That is possibly the poshest thing that you’ve said to me,” Greg snorted. 

“I’m not that posh!” Mycroft protested. “I would say that I’ve lost all traces of being posh since I’ve moved into the flat with you.”

“And you love it!” Greg teased, nudging his side. 

He perched up on the wall and stared at the sky. “It’s beautiful tonight,” he said, admiring the stars and tried to ignore the cold air that was nipping at his fingers. “You know that we met here in May, this exact spot.”

“How could I ever forget?” Mycroft replied, managing to sit on the wall with some difficulty. “I did not expect us to still be friends. I was expecting you to forget to write to me or give up after a few letters.”

Greg looked at him with a serious expression on his face. “What makes you think that I would have done that?” he said almost sounding hurt. 

Mycroft looked at his shoes and shrugged wordlessly. “I’m nothing special,” he eventually uttered out. “I thought that I would be there to pass the time and keep you occupied until you got a girlfriend or moved to London and found more interesting people.”

Greg let out a bitter laugh and shuffled closer to Mycroft, wrapping an arm around him. “I’m nothing special,” he said. “I’ve been in London for a while now and I’ve hardly got any mates. I know that I go out with the lads from work but I wouldn’t really call them friends. I didn’t even make those friends in university that were supposed to be the ones you keep for life. You are the only person who actually knows me, Myc. I’m basically invisible to the world and I’m just messing things up. I should of have it figured out by now!”

Mycroft shook his head, looking horrified at what he said, perhaps shocked that he said this in person and not through writing. “You know that isn’t true,” he said. 

“Probably just feeling a bit tired and sorry for myself,” Greg murmured. 

Mycroft stood and pushed himself off the wall. “You might feel better after getting some sleep,” he murmured, offering his hand to Greg. “We are going on holiday tomorrow and it will take your mind off things.”

“Are you offering to take me to bed?” Greg tried to tease, wobbling slightly on his feet once he had jumped off the wall. “Mycroft Holmes sneaking boys into his student accommodation, how scandalous!”

“Greg, you need to keep your voice down,” Mycroft said, suddenly standing far too close for Greg’s liking. His hand felt heavy on Greg’s shoulder as he tried to guide him into the building. 

  
Greg could count the freckles on his nose with ease and smell his aftershave. He noticed how Mycroft’s brow was wrinkled in confusion. His hair was slightly ruffled from running his fingers through it and there was the smudge of eyeliner by his left eye. He was the most beautiful thing that Greg had ever seen. 

  
“Has anyone ever told you that you are beautiful?” Greg asked, moving closer to Mycroft. 

  
“What are you talking about?” Mycroft asked. “I’m nothing special.”

Greg shook his head. “You are.” 

He took in a deep breath and pulled Mycroft in close, grabbing him by the lapels of his jacket and kissing him as if that could convince him that he was special. Mycroft let out a surprised noise and their noses and teeth clattered awkwardly together before he cupped his cheek with a cold hand and kissed him back as if his life depended on it. He did not seem to mind when Greg gently pressed him against the wall and he responded wonderfully, deeping the kiss and running his hands through his hair without even being prompted to do so before he had pulled away from the kiss, almost relucantly.

“You are something special,” Greg murmured once they had pulled apart from another, their hands tangled around another.

  
“I think that you are possibly a bit too drunk,” Mycroft said, straightening his lapels, his cheeks sugar dusted pink. The expression on his face was unreadable but he had kissed him back and it was possibly one of the most wonderful kisses that Greg had in his life. He had never thought that Mycroft would be surprisingly good at it. 

“I’m not that drunk,” he murmured. 

Mycroft shook his head and took in a deep breath. “I think that we should go to bed,” he said. “I’m a bit tipsy myself.”

“Is that why you kissed me?” Greg asked. 

Mycroft stood there wordlessly and shook his head. The sheepish expression of his face would have been amusing in another situation or in another world. Greg tried to hide the feeling that he had possibly just made a massive mistake, he knew that they would not easily fall back into their easy and comfortable friendship after what happened. 

“I think that it is why you kissed me...you are going through a difficult patch and it is why you kissed me, ” Mycroft said, struggling to find the words. His voice was firm almost as if he was saying it more to himself than to Greg. “We can talk about this in the morning when you’ve managed to get some sleep if you’ve not forgotten about it.”

Greg opened up his mouth to protest and closed it again, deciding it best that he go to bed before any more damage was done. He let Mycroft guide him up the stairs to his room, their fingers still entwined and he found himself not wanting to let go. 

“I would have kissed you when I was sober,” Greg said once they had reached Mycroft’s room and he perched himself on the bed. “You are something special and that kiss was something I wouldn’t forget about.”

He lay on the bed and fell asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow before Mycroft could reply to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for commenting and kudosing. It really keeps me going and keeps me writing!


	13. December 1988- The Rules

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Mycroft opened his mouth to reply but faltered. “It was a mistake,” he said, mostly to himself. “We had a bit too much to drink and we got caught up in the after-party.”
> 
> Greg let out a humourless chuckle and ran his hand through his hair. He sat up in bed and tried to ignore the feeling of nausea that squeezed his stomach horribly and he swallowed “It’s not like you’ve kissed a straight boy or I’m having a sexuality crisis because of it.” '

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't expect to write another chapter soon but enjoy!

_ December 1988 _

The hangover was the worst that Greg had in months. He normally never let himself drink that much these days, he hardly had the time or the money to do so since he had moved to London and entered the workforce. He knew that he hadn’t even drunk that much, barely anything compared to his student days. 

His mouth felt like an ashtray and he realised that he was still wearing his clothes in the bed, his boots as well. His headache felt as if someone was drilling between his eyes, he groaned as the light from Mycroft’s desk lamp caught his eyes and buried his head under the pillow. 

Mycroft quietly apologised and switched the lamp off. Greg looked up from the pillow to notice that he was sitting at his desk chair. He must have stayed there in the early hours of the morning, keeping vigil while he slept. His fingers were tucked under his chin and his brow creased in deep thought. Greg had found the look endearing when he was writing but he found himself hating it, knowing that he had put the expression on his face. 

Mycroft wore the same clothes that he had done the previous evening but had at least put product in his hair and put on his glasses. He must have tidied himself up during the night, the trace of eyeliner that was by his left eye was no longer there and his hair was flatter than it was before. 

  
“Did you sleep?” Greg croaked. 

Mycroft shook his head and took his glasses off, rubbing the bridge of his nose with a sigh. It was difficult not to notice the dark shadows under his eyes that had become more prominent throughout the last few weeks. He rarely seemed to sleep and somehow managed to cope with the lack of it with copious mugs of tea. Greg had often found him studying at the kitchen table in the early hours of the morning when he had come home from working in the club and often had to send Mycroft to bed. Someone had to take care of him and fuss over him, he knew that no one else would or Mycroft would let them to. 

“You know that you need to get some sleep, Myc,” Greg croaked, his voice muffled from the pillow that he had buried his face in. “This staying up all night isn’t that good for you. It’s not like you had revision to get done.”

“You were in my bed,” Mycroft said simply. 

“I could have slept on the floor,” Greg replied. “You could have gotten into the bed. I wouldn’t mind sharing and I don’t take up that much space.”

Mycroft gave him an attempt at a smile and let out a humourless laugh. “I do not think that it would be a good idea.”

Greg peeled his face away from the pillow and tried to give Mycroft a serious look. “You do need to sleep occasionally,” he said. “Are you hungover? You look rough.”

“You aren’t exactly looking much better yourself,” Mycroft commented. “I’ve taken the liberty of getting you paracetamol. It should help, unfortunately, I can’t make you one of those ‘hangover killer’ sandwiches that you claim to work wonders.”

The mention of food caused Greg’s stomach to squeeze horribly, lurching. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, fighting against the waves of nausea that rumbled in his stomach. He shook his head and forced himself to appear more composed than he felt. “Have you taken anything? I don’t want you to get one of those migraines that will keep you in bed for the day or two.”

Mycroft nodded, the action seemed to pain him slightly. “I’ve taken something that should keep one from coming for a while,” he said, massaging his temples. “I don’t want us to miss the train.” 

Greg propped himself up on his elbows and reluctantly forced himself to open his eyes to look at Mycroft. “You are still wanting to go on holiday?” he asked, surprised. “I just thought that you wouldn’t.-just after last night…” 

Mycroft put on his glasses and pushed them up with his nose. “Why wouldn’t I want to go?” he asked, fainting ignorance. “Nothing last night happened. We just had a bit too much to drink last night and we are paying the price for it.” 

“We snogged, Mycroft, “ Greg said simply. “We kissed last night. I know that it is something that you wouldn’t exactly forget. Do you not think that it is something that we should talk about?”

Mycroft opened his mouth to reply but faltered. “It was a mistake,” he said, mostly to himself. “We had a bit too much to drink and we got caught up in the after-party.”

Greg let out a humourless chuckle and ran his hand through his hair. He sat up in bed and tried to ignore the feeling of nausea that squeezed his stomach horribly and he swallowed “It’s not like you’ve kissed a straight boy or I’m having a sexuality crisis because of it.”

Mycroft fiddled with his glasses nervously and stood up. “The problem was not just that kiss, Greg,” he uttered, his voice above a whisper. “I think that it is going to be very difficult for me to just be your friend and I don’t think that we can go back to the way things were before. I have the feeling that you are going to have the same problem.” 

* * *

Mycroft had barely uttered a word since they had sat down on the train. He pretended to be interested in the crossword on the newspaper that he had picked up before he went into the station, taking great care to work on the puzzle. 

Greg watched him carefully work on the cryptic crossword of his newspaper through his sunglasses. He had been working on it for twenty minutes, they normally took him ten at the most if they were particularly difficult or if he had been chattering at the breakfast table. 

“Is it a particularly difficult crossword?” Greg asked, glancing up from the paperback that he was pretending to read, nodding at the newspaper. “Normally doesn’t take you that long.” 

Mycroft put down his pen and spoke for the first time in the last hour. “Must be the hangover,” he said, a sheepish expression on his face. 

Greg pushed over the ice cream tub that was full of sandwiches that he had made for the train. He had offered Mycroft them when he had first sat down and he had politely declined them. He had said no to the chocolate biscuits that Greg had offered him, and had picked at the piece of toast that Greg had made when they had arrived at the flat. 

“You do need to eat something,” Greg said once Mycroft had shaken his head in response to the box being pushed in his direction. “I doubt that you ate much yesterday, not when you had that exam and the play. You never eat when you are stressed and I doubt that you haven’t had a good meal in days. You aren’t that hungover to eat anything.”

Mycroft sighed and folded his newspaper in half. “It is not like I am going to starve,” he said. 

“When did you last have a meal at university which wasn’t toast, biscuits, or just mugs of tea?” Greg challenged. 

Mycroft opened his mouth to protest and faltered and let out a defeated sigh. “Did you make any cheese and pickle?” he asked. 

Greg tried to hide his grin as he rummaged through the tub and pushed the sandwich to Mycroft’s side of the table. He tossed a Kit Kat to him as well.

“You do need to be eating and looking after yourself when you are in university,” Greg said, attempting to be serious. “You are going to make yourself unwell with this lack of sleeping and eating. It’s a good job that I’m here to look after you.”

Mycroft tried to give him a smile but it didn’t reach his eyes. He tried to eat his sandwich but seemed to be more occupied with ripping it apart on the greaseproof paper that it was wrapped in. 

“You’re stressed,” Greg stated after several moments. “I can tell. There is something that is bothering you. Is it what happened last night? What happened-”

Mycroft cut him off before he could finish off his sentence. “You need to stop flattering yourself. It was just a drunken mistake.”

“You did kiss me back,” Greg replied. “If it was a mistake, you wouldn’t have let me kiss you or kissed me back.”

  
Mycroft shot him a dangerous look when the passenger in the seat across from them rustled his newspaper and cleared his throat. “I am not going to talk about this on a train!” Mycroft said in a strained whisper. “Anyone could hear us.” 

“When are we going to talk about it?” Greg asked. “This is as good a place as any.”

  
Mycroft opened his mouth and closed it again. “We can talk about it,” he eventually said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Not on a train when there are other people to hear us!”

Greg placed his sunglasses on his head and leaned back on his seat, folding his arms across his chest. “That’s fine,” he said. “What else is stressing you out if it isn’t just me then?” 

Mycroft didn’t say anything for a moment, carefully thinking of a reply. “My exams,” he finally said. 

“You just had your last one yesterday afternoon,” he said. “You need to be taking your mind off them.”

“How could I possibly take my mind off them?” Mycroft asked, looking at him as if he had said something stupid. “I’m applying for my master’s degree and they will be wanting these winter results. I’d rather be applying now before the summer.”

Greg opened his mouth and closed it again, he felt himself almost shrink in his seat. They had never talked about Mycroft’s plans after university, partly as he didn’t want to think about the future. He had been hoping that Mycroft would have just gotten a job in London and the two of them would be in the flat together and that things would hopefully stay the same as they were before, the only difference was that Mycroft was in the flat full time. He hadn’t really thought of the future past that idea. With how his life had been recently he thought it was best to just focus on getting through the day. 

Greg forced a smile on his face. “You’ve never mentioned it before,” he said. “Where are you thinking about applying?”

“I never thought that you would be interested,” Mycroft shrugged. “Cambridge obviously, I’m thinking about Oxford and… I’m probably not going to get in.”

Greg nudged his foot under the table. “What is it? You know fine that you are going to get in,” he said. “You are the smartest and most brilliant person that I know.”

Mycroft sighed and seemed to brace himself for his response, his hand gripping the table and his knuckles turned white. “I’m thinking about St. Andrews or Edinburgh.”

It felt like a bucket of cold water had been poured over his head or he had been smacked in the face from the impact of what Mycroft had just told him. There was almost the feeling of betrayal that ran through him mixed in with the surge of loneliness. When he had been thinking about the future, he had never considered anything other than him and Mycroft in London together. He had expected that Mycroft had felt the same. 

“Is it...because of what happened?” he asked, stumbling across the words. “Is this you trying to avoid me?”

“If I was trying to avoid you, I wouldn’t want to be on holiday with you,” Mycroft replied, trying to give him a reassuring smile. “I have always been interested in Scotland, you do remember how I was particularly envious of your holiday up there. It is just an idea really, I just thought that I could postpone from working full time at my job. I thought that it would be a suitable excuse for Uncle Rudy.”

It was difficult to smile or even pretend to be happy about Mycroft’s idea. He tried to ignore the feeling that he was getting left behind by Mycroft, the seed had already planted itself in his brain. “I thought that you were wanting to work on your writing once you left university?” he said. 

Mycroft let out an undignified snort. “You know that I am not any good. You have read my attempts at writing. “

Greg shook his head violently. “You just need to get some work and practice in,” he said. “You know that people aren’t going to write an amazing novel right away. I could imagine you going to Paris and being a writer. It’s very sophisticated.”

Mycroft let out his first laugh that day, Greg hadn’t realised how much he had missed the sound. He knew that he would be lost without it. 

“You know that in twenty years' time- less than that actually,” Greg said. “You are going to be a writer and you’ll be having a book signing and I’m going to be right there.”

“You are very confident that we are going to be friends,” Mycroft said. “I thought that you would be fed up with me by then. You would have moved on and found more interesting friends.”

“If anyone is going to have more interesting friends it will be you, Myc,” Greg commented. “You’ll end up having all your fancy writer and bohemian friends, you’ll hardly have time to remember me.” 

“You know that isn’t true,” Mycroft quickly replied. “I would hate for us to not be friends because of last night.”

“I’d like to think that we can still be friends,” Greg said, reaching over to grab Mycroft’s hand across the table. “I know that...it might not be as it was before and it will take time for it to be as some  _ mistakes  _ were made but I’m willing to forget. I am not wanting to lose my best friend.”

  
  


Mycroft nodded and tried to smile, an almost conflicted expression on his face appeared for a brief second. “I don’t think that I will be able to just forget,” he murmured, “not for a while at least.”

* * *

The cottage was not what Greg had expected, he could hardly understand why Mycroft had claimed that it was ‘small.’ He had been picturing a small building with a thatched roof, something that would not look out of place on a chocolate box. 

  
His expectations were not wrong, the cottage looked as if it was taken from a box of a jigsaw box. He loved the trees that were next to the cottage and the countryside that was in the area and it had been a novelty to see cows and horses in the fields as Mycroft drove them to the house. He just hadn’t expected the cottage to resemble a miniature manor house or for it to be in the middle of a country estate that Mycroft’s family apparently owned.

“How posh are you?” Greg asked for the third time since the car had stopped. “I know that you are posh but this is ridiculous! You aren’t like the posh people who went to Cambridge with me.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and tried to hold back his sigh. He opened up the boot of the car and handed Greg his bags. “I am very glad that you don’t think of me as being a pretentious twit,” he said.

“I’ve never thought of you like that,” Greg quickly replied. “But this is just so much and you kept calling it a small cottage! What is your home actually like?”

Mycroft closed the boot of the car with a thud and looked at Greg with a serious expression on his face. “A flat in Shepherds Bush,” he said simply, turning his back to Greg. 

Greg followed him up the path to the cottage and watched Mycroft fumble around his pocket for the keys. He pulled out a large metal key that seemed to stick in the lock and had to fiddle around for it and push the door a certain way until it opened. 

“I just wasn’t executing your family to have an estate that’s all,” Greg said. “I knew that you were posh, but this is so much. I don’t know why you would choose to live in a crap flat with me when you have all this.”

Mycroft put his suitcase on the floor and started to open the curtains and pulled sheets off from the furniture. Greg watched the particles of dust float around the room as Mycroft pulled away from the sheets before he opened up the windows to air out the room. 

“I’d happily move out of the flat for a place like this,” Greg said. “I assume that your main house is a lot bigger, isn’t it? I don’t even know why you want to live in a shit flat with me when you have all of this.”

  
Mycroft folded the sheet that he had taken off a comfortable looking armchair and shot Greg a hard look. “I would rather be in a ‘ _ shit _ ’ flat with you than I would be at home. Having money does not necessarily mean that one has a good life or is happy. It, unfortunately, does not repair a family no matter how much they pretend.” 

“You never talk about your family,” Greg said, perching himself up on the counter. “I know that you are unhappy there but I don’t know why? Is this why you've been stressed? It’s not what happened or your exams? You’ve not been yourself ever since you talked to your brother before you went to the afterparty.”

Mycroft made a gesture with his head, almost a nod but he shook it instead. “I’m fine,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “It’s nothing that I wish to talk about and you should not concern yourself with it.”

“Fancy writing about it if you can’t talk about it?” Greg suggested. “It could help me understand and I could help you with it.”

Mycroft let out a noise and shook his head. “I just worry about Sherlock,” he tried to explain. “I do not see the point in bringing up negative things when we are on holiday. We are meant to be enjoying ourselves.” 

“But it hurts me knowing that you are bothered about something and knowing that I can’t help,” Greg said. “Even me letting me know what is going on in your head will make it easier to deal with.”   
  


Mycroft seemed to almost consider his offer but eventually shook his head. “I think that I could do with some sleep and we need to get some shopping in. I’ll take you to the bedroom and you can get yourself comfortable.”

He led Greg up a creaking staircase and to a large wooden door. Greg looked at the old family photographs and paintings on the wall trying to get a glimpse of Mycroft in them but struggled to find him. He could identify his brother in the photos, the dark curls only seemed to belong to Sherlock. There were several pictures of a young girl next to Sherlock or next to two stern-looking adults dressed in what was their best clothes. Greg assumed that they were Mycroft’s parents, the man had a similar nose to Mycroft. 

He tried to ask Mycroft about who the girl was in the photos, he had never mentioned a sister or any cousins before. Mycroft avoided the questions, pretending to have not heard them or he changed the subject quickly, almost uncomfortable with the topic. 

He followed Mycroft into his room, a much bigger room than the one that had been allocated to him. Greg’s eyes were drawn to the large bookshelves in the room and the large wooden desk. Mycroft rummaged around in the wardrobe for extra bed sheets, sighing at the clothes that he had pulled out and discarded them on the chair, hiding them when Greg caught a glimpse of them. 

“They are outdated clothes that don’t fit,” Mycroft said, embarrassed. “Thankfully, I’ve lost the weight.”

“I don’t care what you look like,” Greg shrugged. “It never mattered to me, I did mean it- what I said last night.”

Mycroft shook his head and perched on the side of the bed. Greg could practically see the gears turn in his head. “We need to have some rules,” he stated. 

“What type of rules?” Greg asked. 

“I do want us to enjoy the holiday and I don’t want any more mistakes to be made,” Mycroft said. He opened up his desk drawer and started to look around for a sheet of paper and a pen. He sat back down on the bed and started to write them down. 

“What are you writing?” Greg asked. “If you are going around making rules, do I get to make some ?” 

Mycroft lifted his head up and pursed his lips together. “I suppose that should be fine.”

He spent several minutes scribbling down the rules in his best handwriting. Greg sat by the window sill and watched him write, occasionally turning his back to watch the animals in the field, seeing grass and fields were almost a novelty after months in London. 

Mycroft handed him the sheet of paper once had finished writing. “You can feel free to make any suggestions. It is only fair, it is your holiday as well.” 

_ 1) No walking around with shirts or any article of clothing off.  _

_ 2) No flirting, not anything in the slightest including compliments about appearance.  _

3) No excessive drinking to the point in drunkenness to avoid horrible hangovers and to avoid any mistakes from happening. 

4) No kissing or any mistakes. 

Greg inspected the list and frowned at it. He looked up at Mycroft and tried to make him justify the reasons for rules one and two. 

“I am wanting to spare our friendship,” Mycroft sniffed. “It is incredibly difficult to think of you as just my friend when you decide to have a chat in my room in just your towel if I have to be perfectly honest.”

Greg moved back to the window still, surprised with Mycroft’s bluntness. It was possibly the most honest that he had ever been with Greg in the time that they had known another. He had never thought that Mycroft had ever thought of him as more than just a friend and had thought that his attraction was one-sided. 

“What about rule two?” Greg asked. “I don’t flirt with you. I doubt that you would even know what flirting was.”

Mycroft chuckled and pinched the side of his nose. “You don’t even know when you are flirting.” 

Greg blinked and sighed. He picked up the pen and wrote down two rules on the piece of paper: 

**5) We must be completely honest with another and not keep anything back.**

**6) No Scrabble.**

He handed the sheet back to Mycroft, who looked at the list and raised his eyebrows in response to it. He looked over the top of his glasses at Greg. “Why rule six?” he asked.

“I’m absolutely awful at Scrabble,” Greg said with a shrug. “Always happens with every holiday I’ve been on. There is a game of Scrabble that is played at the dinner table especially when the weather is bad or after Christmas lunch, there is always a fight that breaks out and I lose horrifically at Scrabble. I know that you are going to beat me in Scrabble.”

* * *

  
Greg watched the rain hit against the window, his eyes following the raindrops make their way down the window frame. It had been raining all afternoon and it had been far too wet to go for a walk or to explore the estate. 

He had tried to read but his books failed to capture his interest. He had tried to watch the TV but his French wasn’t good enough to understand what he was watching and the Asterix failed to amuse him. He tried to listen to his Walkman but found that he had left his favourite tapes in the flat. 

  
He had smoked several cigarettes and he had helped himself to the wine in the cellar. Mycroft had asked if he had wanted to go to the shops with him but had declined. He had still felt awfully rough from the night before and thought that napping would assist with his hangover. 

He found himself unable to sleep, he thought about Mycroft. He had been on his mind constantly since the kiss, he had never expected that Mycroft would kiss him like that. He almost believed that Mycroft was desperate to kiss him, he kissed him as if he was trying to take the air out of his lungs or if the world would suddenly end if he had stopped. 

It was a kiss that seemed to come out of the books that he loved. It would be one that only his favourite authors would be able to describe. It seemed to be a kiss that would be able to end all of the unfinished love stories that were in Greg and made him almost believe that a happy ending could possibly exist in an unforgiving universe. 

He wanted to write about that kiss if he had the talent to do. He knew that it would be able to do it justice but he wanted to trap that feeling, that moment in words and keep it with him for the rest of his life. He tried to do so, borrowing paper and pencils from Mycroft’s desk and struggled to do so. 

  
After several attempts, Greg gave up and went into the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee or get himself another glass of wine. He knew that he shouldn’t be helping himself, but he doubted that anyone would notice that the wine was gone if anything, Greg was doing them a favour by drinking it, the stuff was bloody awful. He could give Mycroft the money later once he had been given his holiday pay from work. 

As he walked into the kitchen, he noticed scribblings on the wall. Faint scribbles that were written in pencil by the door frame. Three sets of marks, a height chart like what his mum did for him and Susie in the old flat. 

Three names on the wall were written in pencil in neat handwriting;  _ Mycroft, Sherlock _ , and  _ Eurus.  _

He had never heard Mycroft mention that name before or had mentioned a sister. He had only ever mentioned Sherlock when they talked about their families. He had acted strange when Greg had asked about who the girl in the photographs was earlier on, quickly trying to brush his attention away from it. 

He knew that he would have to ask him, Greg couldn’t leave a question like that unsolved. He knew that Mycroft would have to answer him, he did agree to follow rule five. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for any coments and kudos, they really do help and have been motivating me to write recently- always a pain to get into a writing slump and getting out of it!


	14. Christmas Day 1988.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'He counted the number of drinks that he had, far too many than he would like to admit and stumbled on his feet. He turned the record over and started the music over. He walked over to Mycroft and held his hand out. 
> 
> “What are you doing?” Mycroft asked, a confused expression on his face. 
> 
> '  
> “Let’s have a dance,” Greg said, grabbing Mycroft’s arm. “It will make you feel better than just sitting here.” 

_ Christmas day 1988.  _

Mycroft rarely dreamed these days, he had hardly done so since he was thirteen. He rarely had happy dreams, he usually dreamed about the copious amounts of university reading that he had to do, a common occurrence since he had to start working on his final year dissertation or sometimes he dreamt about Greg. They were the happiest dreams that his mind allowed him to have, he hadn’t had one since everything went awfully pearshaped all those years ago. 

It was always the same nightmare that Mycroft had always found himself in. It seemed impossible to conjure something else up after what had happened. It hardly took any effort to picture Musgrave and how there was honey for tea every night. He could picture Sherlock in his pirate costume sitting in amongst the funny gravestones or running around looking for  _ Redbeard.  _

He could still hear Sherlock’s terrified screams, his protests about leaving his toy sword in his bedroom and how he ought to get it. He had little care about how the flames wrapped around their home and how the roof where his bedroom was slowly collapsing in on itself. Mycroft believed that Sherlock had never truly forgiven him for preventing him from going into the house to get his pirate sword. He had tried to buy Sherlock a new one with his pocket money once they had moved into the country house but Sherlock refused to play with it, claiming that his old one was better. 

The smell of the smoke never fully left Mycroft and had become permanently engraved in his brain. The feeling of it burned his lungs as he breathed in even in his dreams. 

He could hear his mother’s sobs, a noise that he had never wanted to hear again in his lifetime. There was the silence that came from his sister, her expression blank as she stared at the house being turned into dust. The almost happy family life that they had turned into ashes and being beyond repair. 

He could picture himself so clearly watching Musgrave burn. Completely helpless and only able to hold onto Sherlock to stop him running back into the house to get his prized belongings. Mycroft almost felt tempted to do the same, he had mourned the loss of several of his favourite books and the history essay on the Great Fire of 1666 that he was working on during the holidays for school once things had become more settled and what happened had only become a distant memory. 

The smell of smoke never did quite leave him and family life had gone considerably more  _ pearshaped  _ after it, going completely beyond repair. Mycroft had spent a good amount of time trying to fix the problem and attempted to get things back to normal or at least a close enough impression than how things were before all the bother happened. It was a puzzle that he hadn’t been able to solve no matter how clever Mycroft knew he was. 

* * *

  
He woke to the smell of smoke and to Greg’s face which was contorted with concern. His hand was on his shoulder and he was nudging him, gently shaking him. He could only focus on how Greg was shirtless and how his hair stuck up in all directions, a result from going to bed with wet hair. 

“You are breaking one of the rules that we had agreed on,” Mycroft eventually muttered out, still not quite sure if he was awake or still asleep. 

Greg shook his head in disbelief in the way that he often did when Mycroft had said something that Greg considered  _ ‘incredibly posh. _ ’ There wasn’t an amused expression on his face instead it was one of worry that Mycroft did not like in the slightest.   


“I’ve just heard you had an awful nightmare or something, thought that there was a burglar or you were being murdered with the noise coming from you, “ Greg grumbled. “And you are worried that I don’t have my top on.”

“I do apologise,” Mycroft replied quietly. “I will try to keep it down and make sure that it doesn’t happen again. I do apologise for waking you.”

He squinted at his watch which he left at his bedside table, just past four in the morning. He could smell the bitter smell of smoke and look at the ceiling in the attempt to reassure himself that it was not about to collapse upon him. 

“You have them often,” Greg stated, perching on the side of the bed. “I can hear you when you have nightmares in the flat. Sometimes you shout in them and you’ve cried before. You do sometimes wake up but I think that doesn’t remember. What are they about? The nightmares?”

Mycroft opened his mouth and closed it again, shaking his head in response. He never did care much for talking about the past, it did always drudge up memories that he much preferred to keep buried. He knew that he couldn’t let himself to get upset about them, he was now a grown-up and it was only childish to allow the past to haunt him. 

“It does not matter,” he murmured. “I do apologise if I have disturbed you, both right now and what has happened in the flat.” 

Greg shook his head and ran his hand through his hair. “It’s not a bother,” he said. “I know that talking about a problem sometimes helps or at least takes the weight off. It might stop you from having them?” 

“Nightmares?” Mycroft laughed almost bitterly. “I was just dreaming about my coursework, that is what it was about.”

“You’ve wrinkled your nose,” Greg stated. “You’re lying to me. It’s more than just coursework, Mycroft. I know that it is. A nightmare about coursework wouldn’t cause you to scream at night. I wouldn’t have to wake you up at night or to play music or switch on the tv at three in the morning if it was just a dream about your dissertation. “

Mycroft blinked and opened up his mouth, unsure what to say. There was the sudden feeling of regret and almost shame that washed through him, he had complained to Greg a large number of times of the noise that happened at three in the morning over the breakfast table countless times, at least once a week since they had moved in with another. 

“Why can I smell smoke?” Mycroft asked. “I am so sorry for waking you up.”

He knew that it must have triggered the nightmare. He had the same nightmare each time he was on camping holidays with the school and being near the fire pit. The smell of smoke which clung to his clothes was enough to cause unpleasant dreams. 

“I was up already,” Greg said with a shrug, not moving from his spot on the bed, he had wrapped a blanket around himself and made himself more comfortable. “Couldn’t sleep this morning and I thought that I would just get up and read. I thought that I would make some toast but ended up setting the toaster on fire.”

Mycroft looked at Greg, not quite sure what to say and felt rather foolish that he had let something so small cause him to have a nightmare. “I am so sorry,” he murmured out. 

“Why are you sorry?” Greg asked, a confused expression on his face. “I was the one who made a toaster go on fire. Thankfully, I got it dealt with before it caused any damage. I’ll buy you a new one, I’ll need to wait until I get my holiday pay though.”

Mycroft shook his head and leaned back into the pillows with a sigh. He made a list of the monarchs of England in his head starting from the House of Wessex in the attempt to calm down his brain that felt far too awake for this time in the morning. He knew that he wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep, he never did when he allowed anxieties to get the best of him. He had never been able to outgrow it after his teenage years.   


Greg made himself comfortable on the bed, nudging Mycroft over on the mattress so he could lie down on top of the duvet. He propped himself up with one elbow and looked at Mycroft, an attempt of a reassuring smile on his face. As much as Mycroft wanted to leave the bed, he knew that it wasn’t appropriate for them to do so, he could not force himself to tell Greg to leave. If anything, he wanted Greg to be closer but he felt as if he was miles away on the bed. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Greg asked after several moments. “It can help, talking about things.”

Mycroft shook his head as soon as the sentence left Greg’s mouth. He had never talked about what happened that day or about the matter of sisters with anyone apart from Uncle Rudy. He doubted that he would be able to, she frightened him terribly when he was a child and he would not be able to get a word out. He was terrified of her as a child, more so for Sherlock’s safety around her. 

“It would be impossible to tell you even if I could,” he murmured. “Can we talk about something else?” 

  
Greg nodded and did not say anything for several minutes, his brow furrowed. There had been something on his mind for several days, Mycroft could tell. He had developed a particular interest in the family pictures on the wall and one spot by the kitchen door. He had caught Greg looking at the photo albums. 

  
“Who is Eurus?” Greg eventually asked. 

  
The breath left Mycroft’s lungs and he found himself plunged in a horrific nightmare once again. His past was coming to haunt him, no matter how much Uncle Rudy assured him that she would no longer be there to torment him. He could almost hear that song that she used to sing as a strong wind made a tree branch hit against the window and caused one of the tiles of the roof fall off, crashing into the ground. 

* * *

Mycroft watched the rain batter of the windows and tried to focus on the book that he was reading. It had been impossible to concentrate on the sentences, he blamed the lack of sleep that he had gotten. 

Greg had sent him into the living room, his attempted to assist with Christmas dinner had been unwanted. He had tried to help Greg with peeling the vegetables but had cut his finger when he tried to peel the potatoes, his mind a thousand miles away. He had insisted that he sit down on the sofa and relax, handing him a glass of wine and the book that he had been reading before. 

He could hear Greg sing along with the record player that he had found in the cupboard. He had been rather impressed with the small collection of vinyl that was stashed in the cupboard especially with the Elvis and Queen albums that were left by the much older and in Mycroft’s eyes when he was younger, cooler cousins before they had gone to university or moved abroad. 

He had not expected to spend Christmas like this. Mycroft was not entirely sure if he much preferred this Christmas or the last. He decided that this Christmas was much better than the last, he did not have to phone for an ambulance and spend it by Sherlock’s hospital bed after he had fallen down the stairs after drinking too much from the liquor cabinet as he found himself ‘bored.’   


He had phoned Sherlock that morning to wish him a merry Christmas. He had been unimpressed but had spoken to him for two minutes before he claimed that he was ‘too busy,’ to talk any further. It was nearly impossible to hear him over the loud rock music which was playing in the background and he had to shout over the phone. He supposed Rudy wouldn’t have minded too much, he was half deaf after all.

“Do you need any help?” Mycroft asked once he realised that he had been reading the same paragraph for the last ten minutes and struggled to understand what actually said. 

  
Greg popped his head around the door, a smear of flour was on his face. It took all of Mycroft’s strength to not reach over and brush it off for him. “Go and sit down,” he said, shooing Mycroft away with his hands. “ It’s your holiday and you are meant to be enjoying it.”

“You are the guest and you shouldn’t be cooking,” Mycroft challenged, turning the volume down of the record player. “You will let me do the washing up at least or give you a hand with it.”

  
Greg shook his head and wiped his hands on the frilly apron that he was wearing. Mycroft allowed his lips to quirk upwards for a moment, his mother used to wear it during family holidays. He could never remember his mother’s cooking but he had the feeling that she must have been somewhat skilled at it one time ago, he had been an embarrassingly plump child. They had gotten a cook and the cleaner when they had moved into the house in Sussex, Father said that it would be kinder for Mummy for someone else to look after the house and that she wasn’t able to manage after the fire. He claimed that her nerves were ‘far too frazzled,’ to cope with looking after the house and Sherlock, that it was very important that he take over and look after Sherlock for her, and that he needed to be a grown-up. 

Greg sipped at his scotch that he had poured out before he turned back to tending to the potatoes. He hummed quietly under his breath, wiggling his body along to the music as he tried to look for the masher. “I can do the washing up,” he said. “I want you to enjoy this holiday.”

“You know that you don’t have to do anything of the sort,” Mycroft said with a sigh. “You have been doing this all day.” 

Greg stopped humming to himself and turned to face Mycroft. “What are you talking about?” 

  
Mycroft leaned against the counter and fiddled with his jumper, unsure what to say. He did not want to make a fuss when Greg had brought the countless cups of tea to him or when he had made breakfast for him, even putting the tomato sauce on Mycroft’s bacon sandwich for him. He had been bringing him biscuits and doing the washing up without being prompted to do so. He had been acting like a child who was on their best behaviour or they wouldn’t get Christmas presents. 

  
“You have been trying to compensate for this morning,” Mycroft said. “You did not upset me if that is what you think you did.”

“The question bothered you,” Greg said, wiping his hands on his apron once more. “The way that you acted, it bothered you. I shouldn’t have asked. I just thought-”

“Thought what?” Mycroft asked. 

“You would have to tell me,” he said. “It is a big thing to keep hidden...your sister- if that is who she is.”

  
Mycroft closed his eyes and gripped the glass of wine in his hand, so hard that it could easily break. If it shattered it would feel like a relief. 

  
“I do not have to tell you anything,” he uttered out. 

“I know,” Greg sighed, his hand reaching to him but he pulled it back. “I just saw the pictures and the marks on the wall. I know that you have your right to keep secrets but it feels like a big part of you to keep hidden away. I thought that if anyone would know it, it would be me. I’m your best mate after all.”

Mycroft shook his head and tried to ignore the feeling of nausea rising through him. He had not thought about her in so long and he had thought that he had managed to lock away that part of his life permanently once Greg had entered the picture. He had believed that having a friend and being away from home would help him move away from the past. He began to reluctantly admit that he was stupid for believing it. 

He tried to feel anger at Greg for being so nosy about his past but could not bring himself to do so. It was more an attempt of self-preservation, he did not want to look weak in front of Greg or let his past bother him. He wanted to keep up the illusion of himself that he had managed to create for himself, the grown-up that he had to be after the fire at Musgrave. 

“What can I do make it better?” Greg asked, leaning on the counter. “I’ve already buggered things up over the last few days.”

  
“There is nothing that can be done,” Mycroft uttered. “The best that you can do is to forget about the pictures and that name. I will never talk about her. If you are the best friend that you are meant to be, you will respect my wishes. Please.” 

There was a conflicted expression on Greg’s face and he opened up his mouth to say something but closed it again. He almost looked hurt but covered it up with an attempt of a smile. “Why don’t I make us a cup of tea?” he said, his voice rather strained. “Or another glass of wine.”

Mycroft wordlessly passed him the glass.

* * *

He had been meaning to change the record for the last ten minutes but Greg found himself unwilling to move from the armchair that he was sprawled out on. He had only moved to get himself another glass of wine or to help himself to the cheese and biscuits that were on the table. 

Mycroft stared out into the fireplace, he had barely said a word since dinner. Greg had tried to cheer him and engage him in conversation but it seemed to be impossible to shift the melancholy mood that he was in, no matter how much Greg had tried to make him laugh. 

He had a genuine smile on his face when Greg had given him his Christmas present, a refurbished typewriter that he had been given when his uncle had given him the spare coffee table when he had cleared out his attic for furniture for the flat. It had been lying around in the attic for years and he had been keen to get rid of it. 

It was the most excited that he had seen Mycroft about something in weeks, university stress had surrounded him in an air of melancholy, Greg believed that part of it was partly because of the situation with Alex among other things.. He complained that the typewriter that he used in the office to write was broken, the keys tended to stick and he could not use the key for the letter ‘E.’ He had tried to use a computer to write on but did not care much for it and claimed that writing on a typewriter was how the best novels were written. He complained that writing took too much time for him to do so, his hand could not keep with his brain when writing and it was much quicker to type.

He had played around on the typewriter after plates for dinner had been washed. He decided that he was wanting to write about the day and told him that regardless of the situation, it had been one of his better Christmases. 

Greg had wanted to ask him about his other Christmases but had kept his mouth shut, fearing that he was intruding too much. He had already caused enough bother before. 

He counted the number of drinks that he had, far too many than he would like to admit and stumbled on his feet. He turned the record over and started the music over. He walked over to Mycroft and held his hand out. 

  
“What are you doing?” Mycroft asked, a confused expression on his face. 

  
“Let’s have a dance,” Greg said, grabbing Mycroft’s arm. “It will make you feel better than just sitting here.” 

  
He tried to sway along to the music, Mycroft was still sitting on the chair with an amused expression on his face. He gave an exaggerated sigh and stood up, wobbling on his feet from the glasses of wine that he had. 

  
Greg took his hands and attempted to get him to sway to the music, making them twist to the Queen that was playing on the record player. 

“This is not dancing,” Mycroft huffed, making no attempt to let go of Greg’s arms. He still swayed along to the music, letting out a genuine smile and a breath of a chuckle when Greg decided to spin him under his arm. 

“This is utterly ridiculous! This is not music that you can slow dance to, it’s completely wrong!” he protested, the smile was still on his face. 

“You can dance to any music,” Greg grinned. “Music is just music at the end of the day.” 

Mycroft let out an undignified snort. Greg had to reluctantly admit that dancing to Queen’s ‘ Greatest Hits,’ album was not the best to dance to, no matter how much he loved the music, ‘Somebody to Love,’ had been a favourite song of his for years. 

“Perhaps you are needing to take some dancing lessons,” Mycroft commented, looking at where Greg placed his hand on his back and his fingers were interlocked with his ones. He shook his head in despair as Greg attempted to guide them a waltz but they ended up dipping to one side to the other, occasionally stumbling. 

“Are you any better at dancing?” Greg asked. 

  
Mycroft shook his head, the corner of his mouth twisted upward and with a raised eyebrow he said, “We both know that I lead.”

With a grin, he managed to dip Greg and pulled him back up, the two of them giggling loudly at another. The clumsily danced around the living room, occasionally stumbling on another’s feet or nearly walking into the poofle in the middle of the floor. 

The occasional giggle left Mycroft as they slow danced. They occasionally twisted and spun another under each other's arms. He had his arm wrapped around Mycroft’s waist, it seemed impossible for the two of them to get closer to another with Mycroft resting his chin on his shoulder as the two of them slowly rocked and moved in a circle to Queen’s ‘Good Old- Fashioned Lover Boy.’ 

“I think that you are a bit drunk,” Greg murmured. “We’ve broken one of those rules you made.”

Mycroft hummed quietly to himself. “I think that you are a bit drunk as well.”

Greg knew that it should be wrong that he had Mycroft that close to him as they danced. He knew that it wouldn’t be allowed if they were sober, but it felt so wonderful. He had no idea why he had suggested that they danced in the first place, it was only to cheer Mycroft up. He hadn’t expected Mycroft to take him up on his suggestion but it felt like his most sensible decision. 

He tried to look at Mycroft’s face which was buried in his shoulder. He twisted his body awkwardly so he could read the expression on his face without having to pull away from Mycroft. 

An expression of deep thought was on his face, he hadn’t said anything in several minutes or let out a giggle as they had swayed to the music. 

  
“What are you thinking about?” Greg said quietly. 

“Nothing much,” Mycroft replied. “I was just thinking about us.”

  
“Us?” 

Mycroft nodded, almost a secretive tone to his voice as he spoke. He took his time to get the words out as it he was unsure if he was able to finish off the sentence. “I used to see you in the library at university, I was in my first year when I first saw you. You wouldn’t have noticed me, you hardly lift your head up from the pages once something has interested you...I wanted to talk to you- say hello to you so many times but never did. 

Greg lifted his head up, not quite sure he believed what Mycroft had said. “You’ve fancied me since then?” he asked, trying to hide the grin that was threatening to make an appearance. “Why didn’t you speak to me?”

Mycroft looked away from him shyly, burying his chin back in his shoulder. “I did not think that you would be interested if someone like me spoke to you,” he said, “ not even to just say hello or to introduce myself. You had never noticed me before in the communal kitchen or when we were in the corridor together, I doubted that you would even see me even if spoken to you directly.”

Greg let out a sigh and stared at the wall in front of him, it was much easier to speak when he could not see Mycroft’s face. “I wish that I did look up more,” he sighed. “It is my only regret that I have from university. I wish that I had seen you sooner...It doesn’t’ matter now, the two of us are together.”

Mycroft hummed quietly to himself, stumbling on Greg’s foot as he spun around. 

  
“I’ve thought about the two of us…” Greg said, not quite sure where he had found the sudden burst of courage. “Me and you together. It’s clear that you feel the same way about me as I do about you, I can’t stop thinking about that kiss, Myc.”

“Neither can I,” Mycroft confessed rather reluctantly. 

Greg pulled away from the dance they were in and looked at Mycroft. He shuffled on his feet, not quite sure what to say. It was so much easier with girls, he knew what to do or what to say in situations like this. They were never this complicated but he had never been best friends with the girls he had fancied before. It felt like there was so much more to lose with Mycroft. He knew that it would be impossible to go back where things were before. 

He tried to think of what to say but struggled to do so. It had never been this impossible to put together a sentence before, he often wondered how writers managed to describe moments like this. 

  
He looked at Mycroft and Mycroft looked at him. He licked his lips and Mycroft ran a hand through his hair, nervously.

“We can just say that it was because of too much wine and because it’s Christmas,” Mycroft suggested.

Greg nodded. “We don’t have to talk about this again, what happens here stays in here.” 

Mycroft nodded. “So much for following the rules that we made,” he said nervously. 

  
“I haven’t found a copy of Scrabble when I’ve been looking in the cupboards,” Greg shrugged.”We’ve not broken all of them.”

Mycroft nodded and wiped his palms on his trousers. He looked at Greg with a raised eyebrow, almost challenging him. 

  
Greg pulled him in close and kissed him. He didn’t make the surprising noise that he made with the first time that they kissed but kissed him back immediately. He wrapped his hands around his waist and kissed him deeply while Greg’s hands wrapped around his shoulders and slowly made way into his hair. 

He pulled away after several moments with great reluctance, trying to read the expression on Mycroft’s face. His hair was a mess and his cheek were pink, breathing hard, looking almost offended that he had stopped kissing him. He guided Greg in the direction of the sofa and straddled his lap, kissing him as if he would possibly die if he was to stop. 

He removed the jumper that was wearing between kisses and Greg could feel something hard pressing against his stomach. Mycroft’s long fingers tickled the stretch of skin that was revealed when his shirt was rucked up. He started to tug at Greg’s shirt impatiently. 

Greg placed his hand top of Mycroft’s and placed the other on his cheek to bring Mycroft’s attention to back him. “We don’t have to,” he murmured. “We can just stop if you want to, don’t feel like you have to do this-”

  
Mycroft silenced him with another kiss and guided Greg’s hands to the buttons of his shirt with a raised eyebrow, challenging for him to take it off. 

Greg swallowed hard and made work of the buttons in an ecstasy of fumbling. 

  
  


* * *

“It’s a shame that this only for Christmas,” Greg murmured, reaching around to wrap his arm around Mycroft, the other took the cigarette that Mycroft had offered to him. 

“How do we move on from here?” Mycroft murmured, his face turned away and looked at the wardrobe that was in the room. “You can finish it off,” he said as Greg offered the cigarette back to him. 

Greg finished the cigarette in two puffs and put it out in the mug which had become a makeshift ashtray. He wrapped around Mycroft and pressed a kiss to his bare shoulder blade, he hadn’t had the motivation to get dressed since they had fallen out of bed. 

“It’s up to you, Myc,” Greg said, he kissed his shoulder again and pulled the duvet over them. 

“Did you think that it was a mistake?” Greg asked once he realised that Mycroft hadn’t said anything for several minutes, his brow wrinkled in deep thought. 

Mycroft shook his head, unsure. “I do not know,” he said. “I have never been in this situation before. I’ve only ever slept with Alex before...I am not sure how this goes.”

“It feels a bit impossible for us to just go around being mates now,” Greg huffed and fell back into the pillows away from Mycroft. 

Mycroft moved to sit at the edge of the bed still naked, his head in his hands. Greg instantly shuffled on the bed, propped himself up with one hand, the other reaching over to his back, slowly tracing circles on the skin in the attempt to comfort him. 

“I’m not mad or upset with you,” Greg tried to reassure him. “It’s okay not to know what you want right away. If you are wanting to just be mates and brush it off under the carpet...I’m going to respect that. ”

“Feels like I should know what to do,” Mycroft sighed. “Normal people would know to do in this situation.”

  
“Normal people?” Greg asked, confused. 

Mycroft did not lift his head from his hands and seemed to shrink into himself. Greg traced the freckles that were on his back and pressed a kiss to the back of his neck. “ I struggle with making friends and having them...I’ve had a boyfriend before and it went disastrously. I have never been good with people and new situations...” 

“That’s fine if you do struggle,” Greg tried to reassure him. “I know that you do and everyone does.”

Mycroft shook his head and let out a tired laugh. “I have never been able to make friends, it’s been a miracle that I’ve been able to maintain a friendship with you for so long...I always have the feeling that I must have missed the day in school when they taught children how to make friends and how to be social...ordinary. It comes so easy to everyone else, I’m convinced that I must have missed the day in school when they taught it, it must have been the day when I had to leave early for a dentist appointment.”

Greg was not sure if he was joking or not and was not entirely sure what he could say. He reached over and pressed a kiss on Mycroft’s shoulder and reluctantly got out of the bed. He started to pick up the clothes that were on the floor and folded them up for Mycroft, trying to think of a response as Mycroft rambled on about how he felt like an alien and not ordinary at times. 

He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair and looked up at Mycroft. “I think that you are wanting to say is that you are not wanting to lose the friendship,” he said, somewhat flatly. “If we did get together and things...didn’t work then it would be very difficult for us to be friends. I’m not friends with any of my old girlfriends. I would hate not to be your mate, Mycroft.”

“I am so sorry,” Mycroft uttered out. “I know that this is not what you want."  


Greg shook his head and kissed his cheek. “It is a bit difficult but I would hate for you not to be in my life. I know that this will pass. Just believe me that I care so much about you.”

Mycroft let out a sigh and lifted his head from his hands. His eyes looked slightly red as if he had been crying. It wasn’t the first time he saw Mycroft cry, he sometimes did so when reading particular books, blink-and-you'll miss them tears that Greg wasn’t too sure if they were real or just the light tricking his eyes when he had seen them before.   


He moved to lie back in the bed, his head turned away from Greg. The duvet was pulled up over his shoulders and an unreadable expression that was on his face but he seemed to be in deep thought. He looked small in the bed, the confidence that he seemed to have form when he was Lady Bracknell seemed to have completely disappeared.

Greg lifted the duvet and slipped back into the bed and wrapped his arm around Mycroft, hugging him close. “Let’s just lie here for the night...as friends.”

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally can move on from 1988 readers! How exciting is it? Not sure what the boys will be doing in the next year or 1990s to be honest, only through writing I will find out! Any ideas what they'll be up to? Or what bad fashion will Greg have?
> 
> I just want to thank everyone who has stuck with me so far with this story, it wouldn't be written without you people. Also thank you so much for all the comments and kudos!


	15. January 1989- Bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> '“I just have to say something,” Greg said with a sigh. “I’m going to sound like a right prat but I need to, right before I go. I’m going to be kicking myself if I don’t.”
> 
> “What is it?” Mycroft asked, his brow wrinkled up in confusion. '

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't plan to update so soon and accidentally wrote a chapter that no one asked for...enjoy!

_January 1989._

The spare bedroom had become a storage room since Mycroft had moved out. He had left the furniture that he had bought when he had moved in for any new flatmates or potential partners to replace him. There was no one that Greg wanted in the flat other than him, even if it there was someone else, it would not be able to fill in the hole that Mycroft had left behind. 

He had decided to move out shortly after they had returned from the holiday and stay at university accommodation full-time. He stayed at his uncle’s house for the rest of the winter break, claiming that he needed time to think and that some time apart would do them good, especially what happened. He still paid his share of the rent and the bills even if it wasn’t necessary, Greg did not complain though, he knew that he couldn’t afford to stay in London without it.

  
He had tried to pick up extra shifts at the bar and he tried to get himself a better paying job without any luck. His mum kept sending him leaflets for teaching courses in the post and offers for him to move back home. She kept telling him that his old job in the book shop was still there and there was a new supermarket opening up. He had nearly accepted her offer several times, he felt miserable without Mycroft in the flat. 

He had picked up the leaflet that she sent him about teaching English abroad several times. She kept writing to him about how he should try and teach in France, they had family over there and they could let him stay if he didn’t fancy staying in a hostel or the accommodation that went with the company. She insisted that he would get in there with no problem with his degree and how it would be much more respectable than working in Cromptons. 

He had little desire to teach English but he knew that he needed to get out of London, or at least away from the flat. He believed that it would be like a holiday at least and it would allow him to get away from everything for a few months at least. It would allow him to stop thinking about Mycroft all the time. 

The flat was empty and Greg tried to avoid it all times. He started to work extra days and quickly accepted any chance for a double shift and any overtime that his two jobs could provide to be in the flat as little as possible. He only ever went into the flat to sleep, spending his free time in the library or walking around the parks in London. 

He still spoke to Mycroft but it felt as if there was a sheet of glass between them. They saw another and they spoke to another, Greg would even risk it and say that they were still friends, but they seemed unable to fully connect with another. The conversations still flowed in the same way once the initial awkwardness had eventually disappeared but quickly became stunted and they never did quite know what to say to another. The only time that they weren’t awkward was when they talked about what they were reading. 

The almost daily phone calls they shared were almost nonexistent and only took place on a Sunday. They had met up several times for chips but Mycroft just seemed embarrassed and struggled to speak to him. They tended to bump into another more in London these days. 

Their friendship had been reduced to them becoming penpals once more. He wrote Mycroft long letters, several pages which were full of stories from the people he dealt with at work, what he had been reading, full of the inside jokes and the memories from what their friendship used to be. He felt like his letters were almost like topping up a dead plant with water in the attempt to revive it. 

Mycroft did reply to his letters but there seemed to be a gap between them, sometimes taking a week to reply to him. They were long letters but were more professional. He seemed to ignore any questions that Greg had written to him about how he was doing or when he had wanted to write about what happened at Christmas. He wrote about books and his plans for his Master’s degree, he had decided to apply for universities in Scotland: St. Andrews and Edinburgh among with his other choices. 

  
He had asked if Greg had anyone interested in the spare bedroom or if he had been seeing anyone in the same letter. Greg wondered if this was Mycroft’s attempts to see if he had moved on from him- he knew that it would be impossible to move on, at least for a while 

He couldn’t stop thinking about Christmas and Mycroft. He believed that it would be impossible to not think about it, it was his first time with a man after all. It was awkward and clumsy at times, he had no idea what he was doing and was nervous but equally, it was so wonderful. He knew that despite what happened and how much it had damaged his friendship with Mycroft, Greg was glad that his first time was with him. 

He couldn’t let a stranger or someone he barely knew see him that nervous despite his attempts to hide it and how he pretended that he knew that he was doing. He knew that it would be easier to part ways with a stranger after an experience like that, letting go of Mycroft was more difficult than he imagined. 

He knew that it wouldn’t be easy, it almost felt like he had a part of him missing. A leg was removed with how unbalanced he felt. He knew that time would heal his wounds but he knew that it would be a while until he could walk again. He would just have to stumble and limp for now.

* * *

Uncle Rudy had been concerned about the melancholy that had come over him since Christmas. He had been kind enough to keep up his offer of giving him a place to stay if things had gone pearshaped and had let him stay without question. Rudy had decided that the best way for him to get out of the mood that he was in was through working and had tasked him with organising the boxes of paperwork in the attic. 

Mycroft was not in a mood, he certainly did not stay in bed for two days when he had first moved in with Rudy, and he was not bothered about what happened over Christmas, thank you very much. 

He was certainly not in a low mood, his spirits had been lower than usual but he had blamed the weather for it. He may have found it difficult to get out of bed in the mornings and he had lost interest in his coursework and reading, barely slept and seemed to crave sugary treats but he did not have a black dog following him around. He knew that it would flatter Greg too much if the dog was following him around just because of him, one had first made an appearance during his teenage years and had visited him every now and then. It just seemed to linger this time. 

He often stayed up during the night and spent a good portion of the day wondering if his friendship with Greg was beyond repair. He wondered if the cracks were too deep and there had been too many broken pieces to even make it worth salvaging. 

He had read a book about Japanese pottery from Rudy’s shelves during his tea-breaks of organising the paperwork. He learned about kintsugi and he found the pottery to be some of the most beautiful that he had ever seen. He wondered if there would be enough gold to fill in cracks between him and Greg. He knew that the damage would still be there for the rest of their lives but he wondered if there was something still there between them and they could salvage their friendship. 

  
He wondered if he had made a mistake. He knew that he had made a mistake that night. He knew that with trying to salvage their friendship and not to lose another, they had created a distance between another which they couldn’t cross. He wondered if he should have taken the risk. 

He knew that even if he did take the risk with Greg that the result would have been the same. It had been a miracle that he had managed to keep Greg as his friend for that long, he was just as inexperienced with friendship as he was in other sorts of relationships. 

He was often envious of other people at times, ordinary people, they seemed to just know how to connect with people and socialise. They hardly had to think when it came to relationships and he stumbled often. He often had the feeling that had missed that lesson in school when Mummy had taken him out of school early for the dentist when he was five. 

He wondered if he had hadn’t gone to the dentist that afternoon would he at least have known how to repair his friendship with Greg. It was the puzzle that he had little idea how to solve. 

* * *

The Natural History Museum had always been one of Mycroft's favourite places to visit. He had often visited as a child with Uncle Rudy when he was a child. Rudy had little idea how to bond with him as a child and had decided that it was best to educate him. He had taken him to the opera, concerts, the theatre, museums and art galleries. It was with reluctance that Uncle Rudy had indulged his childhood interest in dinosaurs. 

Mycroft often found comfort in museums. He never got bored no matter how many times he saw the same exhibits, the same items and read the same small part of information what went along with the display. He liked the feeling of time stopping each time he walked into the museum, what happened in the real world ceased to bother him temporarily. 

He liked to visit the dinosaurs in the Natural History Museum, he had a fondness for Dippy even if it was only a model. He sometimes visited him on his lunch break from work or when he needed time to think, he found that counting his bones helped to calm him down when he was frazzled often because of Sherlock or Greg.

He visited the museum on a weekend away from the university. He had little idea why he had gone to London that weekend, he had no reason to be there and had bought a train ticket without thinking. He had no reason to be there, Rudy had allowed him to spend his weekends focusing on his coursework and his dissertation instead of going into the office. 

  
He had gotten into a taxi and had given the driver the address to his old flat in Shepard’s Bush before he realised what he was doing. He realised that he had the key to the flat in his jacket pocket as well as the note that he wrote to Greg and found himself unable to part with them. Getting rid of them seemed impossible and almost painful. 

  
He had gotten out of the taxi, apologised to the driver and paid him for his troubles before he walked to the Natural History Musem. 

He stood by Dippy and counted his bones, all 292 of them, and wondered what he was going to do. He knew that he should have been working on his coursework or his dissertation, or being vaguely productive but found himself unable to motivate himself and found himself in a rare case of idleness. His bouts of idleness had been becoming more common these days, he had gotten a low first for one of his essays with his difficulties concentrating on his work.

“Never expected you to be the type to like dinosaurs.” 

Mycroft turned his head around to see Greg standing next to him, his hands his pockets and a bag flung over his shoulder. He smiled at Mycroft as if nothing had happened between them and things were back to how they were before. 

  
The corner of his mouth twisted upwards despite his low mood. He found himself surprised that Greg still smiled at him regardless of what happened. 

  
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Greg commented. “I thought that dinosaurs wouldn’t be up your street. The Romans and the Greeks are what you prefer, judging by the history books that you read. I'm still surprised that you aren't doing your dissertation on something related to them. ”

Mycroft cleared his throat and shuffled on his feet, unsure what to say. There was so much that he wanted to say to Greg but he had little idea how to get the words out or if it would be right to say them. The note that he wrote for Greg felt red hot in his pocket, he knew that it would be easy enough to just give it to him. It would say all that he wanted to say. 

  
“I’ve always liked dinosaurs,” Mycroft said, somewhat stunted. “Dippy has always been a favourite of mine. I did not expect to see you.”

  
Greg shoved his hands in his pockets deeper before he took them out and ran one through his hair, almost unsure what to do with them. “I guess that I’m going for nostalgia’s shake,” he explained. “Used to go here with my dad when things were… you know. I had a bit of time to kill and I thought that I would spend it here.”

Mycroft nodded at the overnight bag that was on his shoulder. “Where are you going?” he asked, trying to not sound too interested. “Are you seeing...nevermind.” 

He cut off his sentence abruptly and scolded himself under his breath, he looked at the Dippy, trying to look more interested in him than Greg. 

  
“France,” Greg said. 

  
“France?” Mycroft asked. “Why are you going to France? I thought that you would be put off the country after what happened.”  
  
Greg barked out a laugh and shook his head, clapping Mycroft on the shoulder. “Don’t flatter yourself too much,” he said. “It’s a bit of a holiday and I’m looking at a job there. I’ve managed to get an interview for teaching English to kids.”

  
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “I feel sorry for those children as you can hardly spell at times,” he commented dryly. 

  
“They’ve got to learn somehow,” Greg shrugged. “It was a bit short notice but it will be good to have a change of scenery for a bit. I’m talking to the landlord about ending the lease early if I get it, means that you don’t have to keep giving me money for the rent.”

Mycroft swallowed hard and tried to hide the wave of nausea as his stomach twisted horribly at the thought of Greg leaving London. He had assumed Greg would never want to leave London. He had assumed that he would be a permanent fixture in London and would always be there when Mycroft needed him. He wanted to tell him, even order him to stay but he could not get the words out. 

He somehow managed to force a smile on his face even if he felt a part of him shatter inside. He did not know if it was even possible to for more damage to happen and wondered if the only thing that would be left of him was dust or would be covered in rust. “How long are you going to be away for?” he asked in his best impression of cheerful. 

“A week, two at the most. I thought that I would take some time to travel a bit and there isn’t going to be as many tourists this time of year. I’ve never been to Paris and I’ve got some family in the south. I’ve been meaning to improve my French for a while.”

“I am pleased for you,” Mycroft said through his teeth. “I do hope that it goes well.”

Greg shrugged and shoved his hands in his pockets, shuffling on his feet. “How are you ?” he asked, unsure and if the words were foreign to him. 

  
“Fine,” Mycroft replied briskly, not even wanting to tell him the slightest amount of truth. He knew that he was certainly not fine. “What about you?” 

Greg opened his mouth to speak but hesitated before he spoke. “Fine.”

Mycroft nodded and brushed out the imaginary wrinkles in his coat. “When do you have to go?” he asked. 

  
Greg checked his watch. “I’ve got a few hours,” he said. “We can get a cup of tea or some chips...only if you want to ?”

  
Mycroft nodded and swallowed hard, his stomach twisting horribly at the prospect of spending time with Greg. Greg had given him knots in his stomach plenty of times in the past but it felt different from the times before, more painful than it was before Christmas. “I would like that.”

Greg nodded and they made thier way out of the entrance. Greg stopped suddenly mid-stride and grabbed Mycroft’s shoulder before he left the museum. 

“Is everything alright?” Mycroft questioned him. 

“I just have to say something,” Greg said with a sigh. “I’m going to sound like a right prat but I need to, right before I go. I’m going to be kicking myself if I don’t.”

“What is it?” Mycroft asked, his brow wrinkled up in confusion. 

  
Greg sighed and shuffled on his feet, his hands buried deep inside his pockets. He stopped and started several times until could eventually utter out the words.  
  


“God, I just really miss you, Myc.”


	16. March 1989  - Cracks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft read the letter several times. He picked up his pen and put it down ten times, unsure of what to write. He wondered when it had become so difficult to write to Greg, it used to be his favourite thing months ago until he had been so awfully stupid and drunk. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a mini-chapter of some sorts before I got properly into 1989! Hopefully, it's not too awful!

_ March 1989. _

The Guest Bathroom.

Arles.

16th of March 1989. 

_ Bonjour Mycroft! _ __

_ That is the most French that I will write to you in this letter. I doubt that my French has improved too much in the time that I have been here and I doubt that it ever will. I can only really speak it when I’ve been drinking, unfortunately, I don’t think that day drinking is that socially acceptable even in France. I’ve barely had to speak it in the time I’ve been here. I’ve tried to speak French countless times but the moment that someone hears my accent, they switch to English! I’ve had people making fun of my accent as well, do you think that it’s odd? _

_ Currently in the bathroom writing this letter as it is the only place I can get any privacy, my little cousins are always wanting to read my letters. The older ones especially, they claim that they should be able to read them in order to 'improve their English.' Biggest load of nonsense that I've ever heard and I thought that mum was bad enough with trying to read my post. _

_   
_ _ I hope that you are doing well and everything is still alright between us? I know that you weren’t too happy when you heard Kitty on the phone when I had called the other day. I know that there is something more than just ‘she is American.’ I’m sorry if I did wake you up with that call, I just had a lot to talk about and I thought that she was asleep. _

_ How is university going? I’m glad that you’ve decided to keep on being a part of the drama society and you will be a fantastic Macbeth, I really can’t wait to see you on stage! It will help you a lot having some time away from your dissertation, I think that I’m still half-mad from the hours that I spent on mine especially with the all-nighters that were fueled by countless cups of coffee, cigarettes and Pot Noodles.  _

_ I am not sure what else I can write about, I think that I told you everything on the phone the other day. France is alright, I guess. The people are nice enough and the food is alright, it’s nothing compared to London but I'm starting to think of it is home, for now at least. I've got mates here and that is something that London doesn't have.  _

_ I'm s _ _ till getting out the paint from my hair from the kids this morning when they were doing their impressions of Jackson Pollock.  _

_ Not sure that teaching is for me, Myc. I’ve tried to enjoy it and it’s alright but it’s not for me. I don’t know what I’m going to do. Mum is thrilled that I’m doing this and it will break her heart that I don't’ really like it. I’ve tried to tell her but she isn’t wanting to hear it and I don’t want to make a fuss, I’ve upset her enough already with Christmas and dad- he is still not talking to me, he refused to speak to me on the phone the other day.  _

_ What do you think that I should do? You always know the right things to say.  _

_ I’m lost without you in my life as much, I know that you don’t want me to say things like that. I just don’t want Christmas to be the thing that ruins us. Please write back or phone soon, I’m getting a bit worried about you. You’ve been awfully quiet of late, I don’t know if it is because it’s busy and different as I’m away but I’m still always going to be there.  _

_   
I need to cut this letter short, I’m going out with Henri and Kitty tonight. We are going to Paris for the day. We’ve been talking about doing all the tourist things, I’ve not been in the Louvre yet even though I’ve been here for over a month though! I’ve spent more time in cafes and in bars that actually sightseeing. I’ll try to send a postcard to you soon, if I remember, last time that Henri and I were out, it was carnage and I don’t even know how I managed to play football with my little cousins with how hungover I was.  _

__

_ I’ll give you the details of everything later on. _

_ Hope that you are well,  _

_ Greg. _

* * *

Mycroft read the letter several times. He picked up his pen and put it down ten times, unsure of what to write. He wondered when it had become so difficult to write to Greg, it used to be his favourite thing months ago until he had been so awfully stupid and drunk. 

He found himself almost dreading each letter, Greg always wanted to know how he had been and how he was. Mycroft felt awful for lying to him but was thankful that it was much easier to lie through writing than it was through speaking. 

He wasn’t completely lying. He was feeling better than he had done before, each day got slightly easier to cope somehow. He forced himself to focus on his dissertation and his coursework and continued being a member of the drama society. He went out with several of the lads that he liked to parties and to the pub, even to the club one occasion, he found the evenings tedious and repetitive, the same events happened and they had similar conversations but it was not completely unenjoyable. 

It had done enough to blow off the grey cloud that had been drizzling over his head ever since he had moved out of the flat. His black dog seemed to linger occasionally but he was able to ignore it the more that he focused on his work. He would become so absorbed into it that he could hardly think about anything else and had numbed up any lingering feelings or the feeling that he was covered with a wet blanket, a ridiculously heavy feeling that he had no rhyme or reason to experience.   


He had never had any feelings like this with his break up with Alex. He barely grieved the relationship or felt the need to do so. He had been relatively fine in comparison to how he felt about his relationship with Greg becoming fractured. He almost felt that he was grieving the loss of what thier friendship had been before he had ruined it. He did not have Greg to help him chase off the appearance of the dog or any low moods like what he had experienced because of Alex and what happened at the club.

He did not have the portions of chips, the evenings spent in front of the television, conversations that were held in the morning or the evenings when he stayed up all night talking about books that he shared with Greg. 

  
He was on his own. 

He had interacted with other people in the attempt to replace the missing part of him since he had moved out. His attempts at friendship were never the same as it had been with Greg. Other people did not fit with him as easily or he could not talk about anything like what he could do with Greg. He knew that other people found him strange, he had heard some of the members of drama society refer to him in the audience during a rehearsal. 

  
  


He had met Ian shortly after Greg had ended the lease on the flat and he had moved the last pieces of furniture into Uncle Rudy’s home. Ian was a mutual friend and the two were introduced to another at the pub, James claiming that they would get along as they liked ‘ _ Boring books but Russian men.’  _ Ian had bought him a drink and they talked about Tolstoy for the evening and it was not completely unenjoyable. Ian was interesting and was doing a masters in English literature but had ambitions to be a stand-up comic. His jokes did not always fall right and he had to often explain his jokes, Mycroft only laughed out of politeness. He was lovely and charming in his own way even if he dressed poorly. 

He did not mind when Mycroft spent the evenings with his books and his dissertation as he was often doing the same. They spent evenings in the library together, watched foreign films together and went to comedy gigs together, Ian often trying to perform- always poorly. 

Ian was nice enough and he liked him but there was something missing...he wasn’t Greg. He had hoped that Ian would help him get Greg off his mind and to move on. It was more difficult than he had anticipated or could have ever imagined. He wondered if this was how life was meant to be, limping around heavily with an unfinished love story within him, knowing far too well that there would have never could or would be a happy ending to it. 

He wished that he knew what to write to Greg. It used to be so much easier to write to him, he barely had to think and the words would flow out of his pen, writing several pages before the cup of tea that he was drinking had even turned cold.

  
Phoning Greg or speaking to Greg on the phone was even more difficult. He could practically hear the smile in Greg’s voice as he spoke about what he had gotten up to in France. His adventures around the cities and bars with the other student teachers. The clubs that he had gone to and what interesting people he had encountered. He did not sound upset or even like he had missed in him the slightest. He constantly talked about his new friends and in particular, a girl from America called Kitty. There had been some French girls he talked about and there was Henri. 

Greg hadn’t mentioned that he was anything more than just friends with those people but never failed to tell Mycroft how ‘cool,’ they were or what they had gotten up to. His last few letters had been utterly glowing about his time in France and he had made it sound as if he was planning to stay indefinitely even if he did not care much for teaching. 

  
He still wrote to Greg but worried that his letters were not that interesting to capture Greg’s attention. He mentioned the drama society and he had mentioned that he had been to the pub on several occasions. He wrote about his studies and how he had visited comedy clubs these days, he never did mention Ian. 

  
With each letter, he wrote he wondered if it would be the last one that Greg would ever reply to. He knew that he wouldn’t intend to forget about him but it was far too easy to misplace a letter or forgetting to reply and then being unsure if it would be appropriate to send a letter back, not sure if it would be rude to not reply or send one far too late. 

He could feel a distance growing between them and the cracks deepening, no matter how he tried. He doubted that there would be enough gold to fill them and to create something beautiful from the damage that he had caused over Christmas. 

He did not know how on earth he was meant to fix the problem, he considered himself to be clever but it felt like a puzzle that he could not solve, no after how much thought he put into it or how much gold that he wished that he could use to fill in the cracks. 

He somehow managed to write a cheerful sounding letter to Greg. He mentioned how he been using the typewriter and the birthday card that Sherlock had sent him- the message that he had written was not as insulting as it normally was. He wrote about drama society and how he had been to a comedy club the evening before- failing to mention Ian and how the only time that people laughed was when he tripped over the cable of his microphone on stage ( Mycroft may have snickered at that after he had a few drinks in him, he told Ian that it was the impression of Thatcher that made him laugh). 

Mycroft quickly read over the letter and carefully placed it in the envelope once he had scribbled out three words that he had written without thinking:

_ I miss you.  _


	17. March 1989- Ink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Ian is nice,” Mycroft nodded. “I could be doing a lot worse. He’s nothing like Alex.”
> 
> “You could be doing a lot better,” Greg thought to himself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had this in my drafts and I just thought to upload it...

_ March 1989. _

The letter was unusual and it had been one that Greg had not expected to get from Mycroft. His handwriting was a tight scrawl and more difficult to read than it was normally as if he had been writing in a hurry. It had taken several attempts for Greg to read the letter and he had to squint slightly. He had the feeling as if he had must have missed something in the letter, no many times that he had tried to read it. 

The letter was messier than usual and there was a scribble on the last page. It was the most unusual thing about the letter as Mycroft’s letters were spotless and free from mistakes, there was never a smudge on them compared to his letters which were usually covered in smudges, ink stains or ring marks from when he had accidentally left his mug on the letter. 

He could make out three words despite Mycroft’s attempts to scribble them out. He lifted the letter against the desk lamp to help him read them. Three words that still managed to shake the ground beneath his feet and seemed to make the earth fall out of orbit for a brief moment. They were not anything that he had expected to ever had come from Mycroft. 

_ I miss you. _

Greg blinked, not trusting his eyes and the words on the page. He could hardly take his eyes off the page, not quite sure what to make of it. He didn’t even think that Mycroft missed him or had really noticed that he was gone other than the change in stamps and how he wrote to a French address. 

  
He had told Mycroft that he had missed him, usually after he had a few glasses of wine in him. He did often get rather sentimental drinking and homesick, he once sobbed after his auntie tried to make Yorkshire puddings and an apple crumble for a Sunday roast and he realised how much he missed his mum’s cooking.

Mycroft had never said anything to him on the phone about missing him. Greg supposed that Mycroft wouldn’t care that much, he was the one who did decide to move out of the flat in Shepard’s Bush in the first place. He never thought that Mycroft actually missed him and hardly seemed bothered about him, he had assumed that he was just too busy on his coursework to notice that he was gone. 

He had the sudden feeling that he should go back home after reading those three words. He had the feeling that something must have been wrong if Mycroft was somewhat sentimental in the letter;- even if the words were hastily scribbled out. 

Greg put down the letter and made his way to the hall. He picked up the landline and moved it as far as the cable would stretch, sitting in the coat cupboard for privacy from his nosy cousins. He sat in between the coats and the mothballs and after taking in a deep breath, he slowly dialled up the number, hoping that Mycroft would answer. 

“Hello, Myc?” Greg said once the phone on the other side had been picked up. 

  
“Who’s this?” Came an unfamiliar voice on the phone. 

  
Greg felt his stomach drop and could hardly get the voice out when he heard Mycroft in the background. He somehow managed to utter an apology and quickly put down the phone. 

  
  


* * *

Greg eagerly pushed the giftbag in Mycroft’s direction, nudging the china cup of tea that Mycroft was drinking with the large bag making several drops fall onto the saucer. “Go on,” he said. “Open it, you know that you want to, it doesn’t matter that your birthday is tomorrow. I’ve got you something else for that.”

“You did not need to get me anything,” Mycroft said. “You didn’t need to come over for the weekend. A phone call or a card would have been fine.”

Greg shrugged as he placed another lump of sugar in his tea. “It’s not the same and I could do with a visit, Arles is nothing compared to London.”

  
Mycroft nodded and started to carefully remove the gift paper from the bag and slowly started to carefully remove the sellotape from the gift. “ I don’t want to spoil the wrapping paper,” he tried to explain after Greg huffed and tapped his watch. 

  
“I’m going to have to get my train back before you manage to open it,” he said. “Just rip the paper!”

  
Mycroft gave him an exasperated look and with a put on sigh, ripped open the red gift paper. He opened up the box to find a box of tea and a Van Gogh mug, a portrait of the artist with an awful pun relating to his ear. Mycroft wrinkled his nose at the mug and carefully placed it on the table. 

“You hate it,” Greg stated flatly. 

Mycroft opened his mouth and closed it again, not saying anything. “I could always do with another mug,” he said eventually. “I ended up getting my favourite one broken at university. Why Van Gogh?”

  
Greg sighed and placed his head in his hands. “He stayed in Arles for a bit, in the Yellow House with this other artist, Gaugain. He ended up cutting his ear off when he was there as well. My mates thought that it would be a good gift and that you would like it. I can get you something else if you don’t like it.”

Mycroft shook his head and swatted Greg’s hand when he tried to take the mug away. “I could always do with another mug. It has been my better birthday present, I can assure you.” 

He did not wrinkle his nose but Greg had the feeling that he was lying. He opened up his bag and pulled out another gift , this one unwrapped. A copy of Les Miserables, a thick tome which was written in French, he pushed it across the table and Mycroft immediately opened up and started reading the dust jacket. 

“I thought that you could do with a copy,” he explained. “I remembered how you complained that translations seem to be a bit lacking and it was much better to read the book in the original language. I’ve tried to read Dumas in French but I need to use the dictionary every second word.” 

Mycroft looked up from the book and closed it with a light thud, smiling at him. Greg had missed that smile so much. It had been one of the things that he had missed from being home, almost as much as Mycroft.

“Thank you so much,” he said, grinning. “I could always help you with the French if needed.”

Greg shook his head and picked at the finger sandwich on his plate. He had never been for a cream tea before but he believed that Mycroft would much prefer it to a pub lunch. He tried to ignore the feeling that he was out of place and how the manager scowled at his ripped jeans, trainers and earing while Mycroft was dressed in his work suit. 

“I don’t know how much longer I’m staying,” he shrugged. “I don’t know it the teaching is for me.”

“What are you doing to do ?” Mycroft questioned him. “Try and join the police without your mum knowing?”

“You can just back up my alIbi that I’m in France,” Greg grinned. “She is going to bloody kill me if she knows that I sign up. Probably wouldn’t even get into police training or college.”

Mycroft snorted over his cup of tea. “You are going to be fine,” he said. “You might as well join the police, I can’t imagine you doing the filing in an office. You would be bored senseless! I do think that police work would be a lot different from The Bill though.”

  
Greg poked Mycroft with his teaspoon which resulted in a chuckle from Mycroft, who then in a moment of childlessness and a wicked grin, flicked a raisin at Greg’s forehead when the waiter wasn’t looking at him.

It was that moment that Greg thought that things were alright with the two of them again, that perhaps their friendship would possibly go back to how it was before Christmas. He wanted nothing more in the world. 

* * *

Mycroft frowned, turned his head at an angle and squinted at the tattoo on his ankle. His nose was wrinkled up his disgust and a look of confusion was on his face. “What inspired you to get that?” he asked. 

Greg rolled his leg of his trousers down, covering the ying-yang symbol on his ankle. “Do you not like it?” he asked. “I’ve always fancied getting a tattoo, ended up getting them on this wicked night out in Paris with Kitty and Henri.”

Mycroft opened his mouth and closed it again, almost in a debate with himself if he was going to say something or not. He frowned slightly at the mention of his friends, he had done so each time that Henri or Kitty had been mentioned. “Your tattoo is spelt wrong,” he eventually murmured. “I assume that it was meant to say  _ ‘no regrets,’ _ “ he said. 

  
“It’s not spelt wrong!” Greg protested. “I would know if it was spelt wrong, I did study English at Cambridge!”

  
Mycroft raised an eyebrow and smirked at him. “I suppose that perhaps you should be now  _ regratting  _ letting a stranger come near your body with a needle when you were intoxicated.” 

Greg rolled up his touser leg once more and looked at the tattoo. He had only had it done the other day and hardly paid it attention to it, being much more focused on his hangover. He swore loudly when he realised that he had possibly let a dyslexic with a needle give him a tattoo the other night. 

“I don’t regret it,” he huffed as he fiddled with his jeans. “You only live once and at least I can say that I have a tattoo. Bet that you wouldn’t get one.” 

  
Mycroft sniffed and shuffled on the bench, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Why would I let myself let a stranger mutilate my body?” he sniffed. 

  
“You are frightened of needles aren’t you?” Greg teased, punching him on the shoulder. 

  
“Nothing of the sort,” Mycroft replied curtly. “I am just sensible enough to not get a tattoo when drunk.”

  
“Fancy getting a pint ?” Greg grinned. “I reckon can probably get a tattoo on you tonight, you’ll be agreeable to one after a few.”

  
“Even if I did do that, which I won’t, at least it would be spelt correctly,” Mycroft said dryly. 

  
Greg laughed until his sides ached and he had nearly fallen off the park bench. It had been months since he had laughed so much. He didn’t even know if Mycroft’s comment was that funny or if it was the mixture of his hangover and the joy of being with Mycroft once more that seemed to make life feel a bit more enjoyable and less grey for a while. 

He wiped the tears that were in the corner of his eye and settled back on the bench, his shoulders touching Mycroft’s. Mycroft didn’t move from him and Greg could count the scattering of freckles on his nose.

  
“How have things been?” he asked. 

“Fine,” Mycroft shrugged. “They could be better but it hardly matters. I’m surviving. I’m surprised that you wanted to see me of all people, wouldn’t Kitty be wondering where you are?”

  
Greg shook his head and shoved his hand in his pocket trying to find his cigarette papers. “She knows that I’m seeing you,” he said. “You would like her, Henri as well. The two of you would get on.”

  
Mycroft made a non-committal noise as if he was not quite sure not to say to him or there was something that he wanted to say but decided to keep quiet. 

  
Greg jiggled his foot and debated asking Mycroft the question that he had on his mind for the last few days. He had been wanting to ask but didn’t know if it was his place to do so or he didn’t know how Mycroft would react. He hardly knew how he felt about the matter himself and found himself a bit conflicted on his feelings. 

He let out a sigh and ran a hand through his hair. “I phoned the other day,” he said, not looking at Mycroft. “There was someone on the phone. Posh sounding bloke and I know that it wasn’t your uncle, I’ve chatted to him before. Are you seeing someone?”

Mycroft did not look at him and stared out in front of him, he hesitated for a moment before he spoke. “ Sort of.”

  
“Sort of ?” Greg asked .”What on earth does that mean? I don’t have a problem if you have a boyfriend, it would be bloody hypocritical if I did."   
  


“Ian is not my boyfriend,” Mycroft quickly replied. “He was just in the flat when you phoned. He was taking me to a comedy show that he was performing in.”

  
Greg looked at Mycroft as if he had suddenly grown another head. He hardly knew what surprised him more, that Mycroft was seeing someone or that he was going to a comedy club. “You are going out with someone who does stand up comedy?” He asked slowly, the words sounding foreign in his mouth. “Have you been replaced by a cyborg? You’ve got a boyfriend and you didn’t tell me.”

“Ian is not my boyfriend,” Mycroft quickly replied. “You would find him funny, his impressions of former Prime Ministers are awful though.”

“How did you meet?” Greg asked, trying to ignore the pain in his chest and the tightening of his stomach. “I just can’t imagine you with a comedian.”

  
“At the pub,” Mycroft replied. “He is doing a masters degree in English literature. It just happened and we talked about books- the rest is history as they say.”

  
Greg tried to ignore the nagging feeling that he had quite possibly been replaced as Mycroft talked about the books that Ian had been discussing and how he was working on a novel as well as his stand up material. “Does he treat you right?” he asked, almost reluctantly through gritted teeth. 

“Ian is nice,” Mycroft nodded. “I could be doing a lot worse. He’s nothing like Alex.”

  
“You could be doing a lot better,” Greg thought to himself. 

He forced himself to smile even if it felt rather artificial. He knew that he should have been happy and that he shouldn’t have expected for Mycroft to have suddenly changed his mind, waiting for him to come back from France and they would be able to work on things. He just hadn’t expected Mycroft to find someone else. Greg sighed, he knew that he should be happy to have Mycroft in his life even if they weren’t together. 

It was difficult but he knew that he had to be happy that Mycroft was being treated decently by this new bloke even if he wasn’t completely thrilled with it. 

“So what inspired you to get the tattoo?” Mycroft asked.

  
The question brought him out of his head and Greg quickly put on the smile, thankful for the distraction and started telling him about the crazy and somewhat endless night that he had in Pars, putting enough detail into his story that Mycroft could practically imagine himself in the tattoo parlour. 

Once he was finished with the story, Greg wished that he could keep that moment in the park bench with him forever, in his memory or through ink. 


	18. May 1989 - Good Damage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'I don’t think that all damage has to be good,” Greg said, hesitantly after several minutes. “I know that I’ve been damaged over the years, but I wouldn’t want to write about my dad not speaking to me any more or when I’ve not felt good before or just felt nothing. I think that sometimes the damage is… just damage.”
> 
> “Have you ever heard of kintsugi?” Mycroft asked suddenly. '

_ May 1989.  _

Sherlock had decided that he was no longer attending school. He claimed that it was ‘ _ boring,’ _ and that he was only wasting his time attending. He already knew all of the material and the things that he did not know, he had little desire to learn them. 

He sat at the breakfast table with his arms folded, refusing to move from his chair. He refused to listen and covered his hands with his ears as Mycroft told him that he needed to go to college in order to attend university. Mycroft had similar feelings about secondary education when he was at Sherlock’s age but he was at least mature enough to put up with dull lessons and dutifully handed in his coursework early, mostly so it would not interfere with his reading time and he could work on his own projects. 

It had been a battle that had happened most mornings. Sherlock had moved into one of Rudy’s spare bedrooms, he or Rudy had not disclosed why he had done so and they seemed to have little intention about telling him, no matter how much he probed them.

He believed that Rudy was meant to be keeping a closer eye on Sherlock but seemed to be having little success in doing so. He could run the whole country among the other pies that he had his fingers in, despite only having a ‘minor role in the Department of Transport,’ but he had little control over his brother. 

“Are you being bullied by other children?” Mycroft asked a question that he had asked Sherlock every morning. “Is that why you are not attending? Or is there another reason?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and picked at the food on his plate. Mycroft watched him break and smash the food with his cutlery and pushed it around his plate, the fork never went to his lips. His clothes looked much looser on him since Mycroft had seen him at the play. His hair wild and untamable, a hair cut was very much needed. Dark circles were around his eyes and his face looked more pointed in, his collarbones sharp. 

He tended to spend the majority of his time alone as far as Mycroft knew. He would be up all hours of the evening, sleeping in all day if he was allowed or going days without it. He would walk around London in the early hours of the morning. The whole day even, only returning in the early hours of the morning, God only knew what he was doing, certainly not going to school. 

He only went when Mycroft had escorted him there in the morning on the days he did not have lectures. Sherlock often left the moment that he was bored, sometimes, leaving the moment that he had been dropped off at the gates. 

His behaviour was slightly better when Rudy was around, he seemed to have a begrudging respect for their Uncle. Rudy who was full of his own eccentricities was often amused by Sherlock’s ones, happily indulging his curiosities and had even given him access to a lab where he could do his disgusting experiments. 

  
Sherlock refused to answer his questions about what was wrong with school . He refused to move from the table, only willingly moving to get the packet of cigarettes that he had stashed in one of the floorboards under the breakfast table. 

Mycroft snatched the box from Sherlock’s hands and placed it in his breast pocket of his coat. He sat down at the table and pretended to ignore the tapping of _‘Fuck you’,_ in Morse Code, he often regretted getting Sherlock that book these days. 

“You are going to be late for school,” Mycroft said simply. “Put on your coat and I’ve got your bag. I’ve taken the liberty of organising your bag for you and making you a sandwich for lunch. I’ve put your homework and your books in there as well. You just need to put your coat on and you can go.”

“I’m not going,” Sherlock stated, his voice squeaking slightly. “I don’t understand why you are forcing me to go. What am I going to learn? There’s nothing!”

Mycroft pinched his nose and tried to ignore the feeling of déjà vu that he had these days. It was the same argument that happened every morning. He hardly had to think about what to say in response, the answers coming out automatically. 

  
“It is important that you go,” Mycroft said in response with a sigh.” You know that it is. You might learn something useful,” he said. “You will be able to talk to people your own age and socialise at least.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and gripped the bottom of the chair with his fingers, preventing Mycroft from being able to move him. “You are the only other person who can even understand what it is like for me to be in school. I can feel my brain melting when I am with those idiots. What use is reading Of Mice and Men going to be for me?” 

Mycroft stopped his attempts to tip Sherlock out of the chair and sighed. He moved so he was standing at the front of the chair and knelt down, creasing his best trousers. “We all have to do things that we do not enjoy,” he said, sternly. “I do understand that it is difficult especially as everyone is so  _ slow _ and they do not understand your brain and you cannot understand theirs. We have to do things we do not like though, Sherlock. What can make this better? I thought that it would be better since you weren’t boarding and you are away from home.”

  
“You wouldn’t understand,” Sherlock uttered out, turning his head away, looking smaller in his chair. 

  
Mycroft stood up and removed the creases from his trousers, he tactfully looked away from the nicotine stains on Sherlock’s fingers and the bruises that were on his arms. He would have to have a word with someone later on. 

“Go and get your coat,” Mycroft said with a sigh, forcing a tight smile on his face. 

“You are getting fat,” Sherlock stated. “You’ve put on seven pounds.”

Mycroft tried to comb Sherlock’s hair into place with little result, focusing on the section where he knew that would become a bald patch before Sherlock was forty, he kept his thoughts for himself. “How long are you planning to stay in school for? “ he asked. “I am not having you leave before you have even been in registration. I would stay if I did not have better things to do.”

Sherlock did not say anything in response, storming up the stairs to his the bedroom. Mycroft following behind him, ensuring that Sherlock did not try to make another escape through the window once more. He ran his fingers along the chipped and dented bannisters from where their disputes did not always remain gentleman like, dignified and verbal. He still had the bruises from the other week after his argument with Sherlock, fueled teenage angst, the bitterness of being an outsider and having no one to understand him, submerged in sourness. 

* * *

Greg placed his suitcase on the steps outside the hour and hesitated before he rang the bell. He wasn’t sure if Mycroft had given him the right address. He waited several moments before he rang the bell again, trying to fight the feeling of anxiety once he did not hear any movement behind the door. 

  
He did not know where he would go for the night. He hardly had any money, the teaching job did not pay that much and he had spent more money than he should have done. It was much easier to not care about how much money he was spending when he was having a good time, he hardly gave it a second thought. 

  
He could have gone home but he doubted that his dad would allow him to stay or even come around for a visit. His dad seemed to act like he didn’t exist these days according to his sister, refusing to acknowledge him or mention him in conversation. He knew that his mum would have taken him back in a heartbeat but he didn’t want to cause a bother and give his mum more grief.

The door opened to reveal Mycroft’s uncle, wearing a silk dressing gown that flowed behind his. His mum had something that was similar to what he was wearing. There was rouge on his cheeks and a smudge of eyeliner that was in the corner of his eye. 

“I like the dressing gown, Mr Holmes,” Greg said, somehow managing to keep a neutral expression on his face. The last time that he had seen Rudy, he had been dressed in his best suit for the play without a trace of makeup on him. It hardly surprised him too see a man wearing women’s clothes or makeup, nothing surprised him these days after working in Soho. Rudy was rather ordinary and tame to some of the people that he had seen over the years.   


  
“Gregory,” he said, nodding in Greg’s direction. “ Mycroft is not here just yet but I’ve gotten the spare bedroom organised for you.”

He pushed opened the large wooden door, stepping aside to invite Greg in. “I do hope that I did not keep you waiting for long,” he said, a rather sheepish expression on his face. “I was wanting to remove the cold cream and make myself presentable for guests.”

  
Greg stepped into the hallway and looked at Rudy. “If it is anything,” he said, “if you don’t mind me saying- I’ve seen a lot of stranger sights in Cromptons on a Saturday night. Have you thought more about getting that velvet dress that you were telling me about on the phone?”

Rudy let out a warm laugh and guided him into the sitting room, enthusiastically telling Greg about the new items that he had in his wardrobe. He made sure to show Greg where the library was, quickly giving him access to his collection for as long as he was there. 

He quickly fell in love with the library in an instant and he found himself at home within the hour. He knew that he couldn’t stay for too long and he would have to find his feet again in London, it felt as if it was intruding into Mycroft’s personal life being with his family. 

He swore that the eyes on the family portraits followed him as he walked along the corridors behind Rudy. He tried to ignore the niggle in his brain that told him that he was intruding and that he shouldn’t have been there. A neglected and dust-covered portrait of a young girl’s eyes seemed to pierce right through him and haunted him. 

He managed to avoid looking at her and ignore the hairs that had risen to the back of his neck. He tried to ignore the feeling that he shouldn't be there and that he should run. 

* * *

He was amazed at how well Greg seemed to take to Sherlock, hardly seeing bothered by his eccentricities over dinner. They had talked about Jack the Ripper over dinner, Sherlock showing Greg the crime scene pictures as they ate. Greg seemed amused with Sherlock, hardly being put off from his dinner as he looked at pictures of the Ripper’s victims even if he did try to steer him into more suitable conversation topics on occasion. 

Sherlock was showing off to Greg, he always seemed to do that the moment that someone took an interest to him. Greg was hardly phased by his conversation topics and taken him up to his room to see his latest ghastly experiment and his book about bees. He was amused by Sherlock’s deductions about him and seemed to take everything in his stride.

  
He would have normally told Sherlock off for showing off but it was the first time that he had seen a genuine smile from his brother in months. He had seen a brief happiness in Sherlock that he wanted him to hold onto, it was quite possibly the first one that he had experienced in years. Mycroft wanted the feeling to last as long as possible, not sure when Sherlock would experience it again. It would be cruel to not allow him to hold onto the feeling.

  
  
  


He felt as if he hadn’t blinked in hours, his eyes were focused on the pages in front of him. He had developed calluses on the side of his fingers from overuse of pens and pencil and there was a constant smear of black or blue ink on his hands that seemed to be there permanently these days. Sleep seemed to become a rarity and considered it to be a good night if he got four hours without waking up during the night. 

He knew that he was considered intelligent and that he was able to do his coursework and dissertation but he had found himself in a constant state of stress with it. It felt at times that he would be paddling through the water just fine but then found himself caught up in the wave at times. 

He knew that he would be fine and that he would get a first without a problem. It bothered him that he allowed himself to get stressed about it. He blamed how in history and politics, unlike mathematics, there was not just one right answer and it was often difficult to make one conclusion. There was never one right answer when it came to events in history or when it came to people. Everything was up for interpretation and it was difficult to make one firm conclusion about one thing or another. It was sometimes impossible to fix mistakes and there was sometimes never an answer. 

He had been managing fine enough before his tutor had brought up the matters of post-graduate degrees to him in a meeting. The meeting was originally about his tutor’s concerns about how quiet he had been since he had arrived back from Christmas and how his marks had slipped slightly- hardly anything to be concerned about as he was still getting a high firsts in his coursework.

To prevent any further slip-ups, he had been ensuring that his marks were up to the high standard, his perfectionist tendencies making him work until the early hours of the morning and almost to the point of burning out. He had little desire to have any more of his inefficiencies noticed by anyone else. 

He allowed himself to focus purely on his coursework to help him avoid the matter of what he was going to do once he finished off university and his lack of direction. He had little desire to go right into an office job and he had successfully haggled for a year with Uncle Rudy about having one more year to study before going behind a desk. 

He had little direction about what he wanted to do. He had applied for postgraduate courses in history and politics in a few universities and was waiting to hear back from the ones that he applied for in Scotland. He knew that he might have to decline the offers for them, realising that it would be best to be closer at home for his brother. Sherlock was always going to come first and he worried about him constantly.   


  
Greg walked into his room without asking in his pyjamas. He sat on the bed and made himself comfortable, his knowledge on privacy and personal boundaries seemed to be lacking since he had arrived in the house, Mycroft wondered if it was something that head picked up from his American friend or something from the French.

  
“Couldn’t sleep?” Mycroft asked, turning his desk chair around to face the bed. He checked the time and sighed, it was three in the morning. He had told himself that he would work for  _ ten more minutes _ hours ago. 

“I could be asking you the same thing,” Greg replied giving him a tired smile. “I’ve barely seen you since lunch. I thought that the two of us being together in the same place, I’d see more of you. You look tired.”

Mycroft sighed, suddenly realising how exhausted that he felt. “It feels like I am going nowhere with this dissertation. I’ve got two weeks to get it all done and final exams, and I’m meant to know what I’m doing with my life,” he said with a bitter chuckle. “So yes, Gregory, I am tired.”

  
“Have you tied getting some sleep?” Greg asked. 

Mycroft glared at him and Greg held up his hands in surrender. “Right, that was a stupid question. I’m sorry.”   
  


“I’m sorry,” Mycroft sighed. “It is not fair to you. I know that you are the only one who knows what the feeling is like. How did you get through the last few weeks ?”

Greg thought carefully for a moment before he listed off everything, using his fingers to help him to list off everything. “A lot of coffee; even more cigarettes; chocolate; alcohol, and sex,” he said bluntly. 

  
Mycroft wrinkled his nose in disgust and rolled his eyes. “The last one was for stress relief, I did have a girlfriend at the time as well. I needed to enjoy myself and I didn’t have you as my mate to keep my company- you asked and I’m being honest.” 

Mycroft shook his head in despair and turned back to look at his books. He considered his method of relaxation, attempting to write short stories was a much better way to blow off steam than what Greg did. 

“I can look over your work for you?” Greg offered, standing up and looking over his shoulder at the sheets of paper. “I bet that you are doing a great job. Heard anything back from the universities you’ve applied for?”

Mycroft sighed and shook his head. “I’ve just applied not long ago,” he replied. “I doubt that I will hear anything back until I get my results- I’m not entirely sure if I’ve made the right choice, to be honest. I am not sure if I am only applying to just have another year of prolonging actual adulthood and keep myself in the bubble.”

“If it makes it any better, I still don’t know what I’m doing,” Greg confused, sprawled out on the bed. “I think that I spent half my time not knowing what I’m doing, just waiting for the moment that I know what to do. I’ve always done it, I only applied for uni as a joke, I didn’t expect to get a place and I’ve just been winging it ever since.”

He stood up and rummaged around in the pocket of the dressing gown that he had borrowed from Mycroft, pulling out leaflets and scraps of newspapers. “I’ve kept an eye out for writing courses, the leaflets are for university ones that you can take if you are still applying for places. Some of them are English degrees but there is a lot of creative writing modules, but they sound good. I did consider them when I did look at courses last year. There is always the OU or a correspondence course if you want to do something in creative writing even if you are working. There is this one in Paris that you would like, it is very you. I can just imagine you being this writer in Paris. “

Mycroft inspected the pieces of paper and put them down with a sigh. “I have to send them samples of my work and you know that I am not that good.”

Greg picked up the leatherbound notebook that he wrote in and the sheets of paper that he had typed up. Mycroft would have normally complained about the invasion of privacy but he found himself too exhausted to protest or snatch the notebook back. 

He turned around and placed his head in his hands to avoid looking at Greg’s expression as he read. He had little idea how long he had been sat in silence before he heard Greg put down the papers.

  
“What did you think?” he asked, rather reluctantly. 

“I think that you've got something there,” Greg said. “The story about featherless and clipped wings was rather touching. Is it based off something that happened? I can feel the pain there when I read.”

Mycroft lifted up his head, surprised that Greg had been kind about his writing. He supposed that Greg would have to say something nice, it was probably done out of pity as he was a friend after all. “You don’t have to be kind about it,” Mycroft said. “I know that it’s not the best. I could write a lot better.”

Greg shook his head and sat up in the bed vigorously. “It is amazing,” he said sincerely. “I think that you need to go for those writing courses. It is the thing that you should do, I know it is. I know how much you want to be a writer.”

Mycroft shook his head and let out a self-deprecating chuckle. “You are just saying that as you are my friend.”   
  


“I would also let you know what you’ve written is a lot of shite as well,” Greg replied. “I’m the type of best friend who is always going to be honest with you. I’ve read a lot over the years, not to mention that I’ve got an English degree from Cambridge, so I know what’s good.”

“I’m really not that good,” Mycroft protested. 

  
“Get onto a writing course and learn to get good then,” Greg shrugged. “It’s not that difficult.”

Mycroft considered it for a moment and faltered and shook his head. “That thing that you read was just an exception. I doubt that anything else that I try to write is even the slightest bit of good.”   
  


“What makes you think that?” Greg asked. “Help me understand.”

  
Mycroft hesitated for a moment and shook his head. “It sounds stupid,” he said.

  
“That’s fine with me,” Greg shrugged. “What is it?”

He tried to chose his words carefully and struggled to do so. He took several attempted to speak, he started to start and stop before he could get a sentence out. Greg was patient, an encouraging smile was on his face and he had made no attempt to force him to speak or hurry him. It was one of the reasons why he liked Greg so much, he allowed him just to think and take his time, he never had to rush to get his thoughts in order. 

“I thought that writing would be easy,” he tried to explain. “I thought that I had acquired enough damage over the years that it would be easy to write something great. All the great stories are based around pain and come from the damage that the author went through. Dickens is one of them, how else could he write wonderful novels?”

“You know that the miserable writer is just a stereotype?” Greg commented. “You don’t have to be miserable and damaged to write. What damage do you have?”

“I did not have the best childhood,” Mycroft confessed. “I was rather miserable before I met you. I don’t care to go into detail, I hope that you don’t mind, but I’m sure to get more damaged over the years. I might as well make use of it and make it good. Worthwhile.” 

‘ _ Losing you completely would give me irreparable damage,’  _ Mycroft thought to himself, looking at Greg. He knew for a fact that there wouldn't be enough gold to fix the cracks if he ever lost Greg completely. He still felt annoyingly fragile after what happened at Christmas. 

  
“I don’t think that all damage has to be good,” Greg said, hesitantly after several minutes. “I know that I’ve been damaged over the years, but I wouldn’t want to write about my dad not speaking to me any more or when I’ve not felt good before or just felt nothing. I think that sometimes the damage is… just damage.”   
  


“Have you ever heard of kintsugi?” Mycroft asked suddenly. 

He walked over to the bookshelf and pulled out the book on Japanese pottery once Greg had shaken his head in response. He opened up the book to his favourite pages and handed it to Greg. “It’s the Japenese art of repairing pottery. They can fill in the fill in the cracks with gold and it makes the damage look beautiful. It doesn’t remove the damage from the object but it makes it part of its history. I think that sometimes the damage is worth it and makes it look more beautiful than it had done so before.”

  
“It is beautiful,” Greg nodded in agreement. “ How does this relate to writing though? Can’t you just write without it relating to this damage?” 

  
“I thought that writing would help to fill the cracks...help to repair myself enough to help me move on from the past. It would make any of the melancholy moods...the emptiness just worth it and I’ve been able to create something beautiful from it. ” he tried to explain. “If I can’t write...then has the damage been worth it? Am I just living in the cracks?”

Greg wrapped his arms around him tightly and shook his head. “I wish that I knew that answer,” he murmured. “I think that you are going to be an amazing writer one day, I don’t think that you even need to write or even use this damage.”

* * *

He had managed to sneak Mycroft’s notebook and sheets of paper out of his room once Mycroft had eventually fallen asleep at four in the morning. Greg had switched off the alarm clock that he had set for five, wanting him to at least get a few hours of sleep. 

  
He knew that Mycroft was going to kill him for taking his notebook and what he was doing. He sat in the spare bedroom that he was staying in and tried to type away as quietly as he could. The noise of the keys seemed to echo around the room horribly with each letter he tapped as he transcribed the stories from Mycroft’s notebook. 

The keys stuck horribly and he only had a few hours before Mycroft would wake up. He wished that he was a much faster typer than he was. His abilities to type quickly had gone downhill since he left university and he wasn’t on tight deadlines to hand things in. 

He managed to type up two of the stories by the time that he heard Mycroft come out of his bedroom. He quickly shoved the notebooks and typewriter under his bed as Mycroft knocked on this door, letting him know that breakfast was ready. He stood in front of the bed so Mycroft couldn't see what he was doing.

  
He looked at him strangely but did not say anything and thankfully didn't seem to notice the pieces of paper that were on the floor or that his notebook was missing from his desk that morning. 

He filled out the application forms for writing courses on Mycroft’s behalf that afternoon and made copies of the sheets that he had typed up in the post office. He knew that Mycroft was going to kill him but he realised that it would be worth it the moment that Mycroft got into a writing course. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sudden chapter that I did not expect to write so quickly, hopefully, it's not too bad! Ended up writing some of my feelings about writing there in Mycroft by accident, I'm not sure if anyone else has had the feeling or it's just a me thing. I'm not sure. 
> 
> This might be the last chapter I write before Christmas, hope everyone is staying safe and well!


	19. May 1989- A Bundle of Nerves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Greg took a breath and walked into the room. He noticed that the letter in Mycroft’s hand had been crumpled up as he read it, his fingers grasping the expensive-looking paper so tightly that it might rip. '

_May1989_

He heard the postman walk up the gravel and he heard the letters getting pushed through the door, hitting the floor with a clatter. Immediately, Greg made his way to the door and picked up the letters, quickly flicking through them to find one with his name on it. 

He sighed when he didn’t find anything addressed to him other than two writers magazine and one car magazine that he subscribed to, not the letter that he was wanting. He placed the letters on the table, organised into neat piles for Mycroft and Rudy, he sighed and rolled his eyes when he saw Ian’s handwriting on a letter addressed to Mycroft. One letter was thicker than most with a university logo on it, the writing seemed to be in French. An inexplicable sense of hope and happiness ran through Greg. 

He knew that he had only finished off his application for Hendon last week but he had hoped to have heard back from them soon, he had spent hours perfecting his application and had even gotten Mycroft to read over it for him and check the spelling, though he didn’t really need him to do that- he did have an English degree from Cambridge after all. 

He didn’t know what he would do if he didn’t get in, he had always rather fancied being a police officer. He had always been attracted to the action of the job from watching crime shows on the telly and he believed that it would be the easiest way that he could make a difference in the world. He believed that the world was a cruel enough place already and the least that he could do for it was add a bit of good to it. 

It felt like the only thing that he actually really cared about in a long time. He did some reading on the history of the police and watched all the documentaries. Rudy had told him that he should be fine to get in, he was apparently friends with someone high up in Hendon and he had put a good word in for him despite Greg’s protests about it. 

He sat down at the table and placed several sugars in his tea, thankfully Mycroft was not there to wrinkle up his nose in disgust at him and make comment about how much sugar he took and questioned him if he actually liked the taste of tea. 

He took a quick glimpse around the room, standing up to poke his head through the door even though Mycroft and Rudy were in the office, Greg still had little idea what they actually did other that Rudy saying that he had ‘a minor position,’ and that Mycroft did his filing for him. The cleaner wouldn’t be there for another hour but Greg hoped that he would have done the most of the housework for her and she could watch the television until her shift finished once she had finished off the few jobs Greg wouldn’t do.

He sat down and flicked through the pages of the writer's magazine, flicking through the pages until he went to the submissions page. He scanned through the pages, rolling his eyes at a Mills & Boon inspired story and a spry story, the author had clearly imagined himself as the main character as he wrote, the description of the character was a bit too flattering and took up most of the word limit of the magazine.

He let out a gasp and barked out a laugh of relief when he saw Mycroft’s story on the page. It was only third place in all of of the stories but it was something, he had been sending away Mycroft’s stories to magazines and to writing competition without hearing anything back. 

He couldn't believe that it had taken that long for something to get noticed and he hated the idea that Mycroft’s stories ended up crumpled up and thrown into the bin in favour of stories which were poorly written and didn’t speak to him. Stories that would have been forgotten about as soon as the newest one had been written, not one that would stay within him for the rest of his days. 

He pretended to read his car magazine in an attempt to ignore his curiosity about Mycroft’s letter. It had to be promising, it was thicker than his other letters and he knew that if it was a rejection then they wouldn’t waste that much paper on someone. 

A bundle of nerves wrapped around Greg’s stomach and tightened horribly as he realised that Mycroft would find out what he had been doing. He had somehow forgotten to tell him and had been acting almost as his secretary without him even knowing as he typed out stories, made photocopies of them, and dutifully filled out the application forms for writing competitions, under Mycroft’s name of course. 

As much as he knew that Mycroft would be annoyed with him and would quite possibly allow Sherlock to use his body for an experiment or two, Greg knew that he had to do it. He knew that Mycroft would never push himself or take the initiative to do anything with his writing other than keeping it to himself in his notebook. He was perfectly confident that he was awful and that his writing wasn’t even worth the paper that they were written on. 

If Greg had to be honest, Mycroft was wasting his talent by keeping it to himself and not doing anything with it There was still some bumps as he wrote but he figured out that they would be smoothed out after he took a writing class and figured out exactly what he wanted to write instead of focusing on the damage. He knew that there must have been a story inside of Mycroft one that wasn’t inspired by damage even if it was what Mycroft called it; _good damage._

He quickly finished off the housework for the cleaner and was more thankful when he had left the house for a kids football club that he helped out at and for a Cubs meeting not long after. He believed that getting kicked and having footballs launched at his face by school children for an hour and having to make woggles on a Friday night was a much better time than having that letter in his sight. 

  
  


* * *

He caught a glimpse of Mycroft by the breakfast table as he walked through the front door, limping and more bruised than he was when he left the house this afternoon. His stomach knotted tightly, he tried to blame it from the head-but that he had received by a grumpy ten-year-old in the Cubs meeting after he had stopped him climbing on the roof of the building. 

His expression was unreadable, his face partly covered by the letter than he was reading. The writing magazines were laid out on the table and opened to the submissions section and the table was a mess, covered in the letters and envelopes that Mycroft had uncharacteristically spread out on the table. 

Greg took a breath and walked into the room. He noticed that the letter in Mycroft’s hand had been crumpled up as he read it, his fingers grasping the expensive-looking paper so tightly that it might rip. 

Greg cleared his throat to alert Mycroft of his presence, taking two bottles of beer out of the fridge and opening them, offering one to Mycroft as a peace offering once he caught a glimpse of the letter Mycroft was reading. 

  
“Everything alright?” Greg asked, forcing himself to be cheerful, overcompensating for Mycroft’s deafening silence. “You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had. I don’t know why I did offer to help out with the Cubs, ended up getting headbutted by one of the little buggers. I doubt that I’m doing to be able to sit down because of the little bastard, that’s what I get in return for trying to stop him climbing on the roof.”

Mycroft did not say anything. He placed the letter onto the table. His face pale and though there was an expressionless mask on his face, Greg could feel the anger in his eyes. He swallowed hard and took a step back. He had seen the expression on Mycroft’s face before but had never been on the receiving end of it. He had it on his face when Sherlock had pushed him too far or when he had found out that Alex had been doing more than just dancing with another bloke in the gay bar and had been sleeping with someone from his Dungeons and Dragons club for weeks. 

  
Mycroft had never been angry at him. They had small arguments here and there when they were in the flat together. They weren’t proper arguments though and he had prided himself that he had Mycroft had never properly fallen out, it was what made their friendship so wonderful to Greg. 

“Is that a bad letter from Ian? “ Greg asked, hopefully. 

  
Mycroft shook his head and spoke. He never shouted or even spoke loudly. That is what made the whole situation worse. Greg would have preferred it if he did. Instead, he was rather calm, the words that he spoke were ice cold, painfully professional and without a trace of emotion in them. 

“Greg, I think that we need to talk about something.” 

Was all that Mycroft said. The words terrified Greg, he nodded and took a sip of his beer in the attempt to numb himself before Mycroft’s words froze him.


	20. May 1989- The Attic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'He had taken up to spending his free moments in the attic ever since he had his chat with Mycroft.'

_ May 1989 _

He had taken up to spending his free moments in the attic ever since he had his chat with Mycroft. It was the easiest place to avoid him, he never went upstairs, complaining about how the dust seemed to aggravate his allergies and how the smell of Sherlock’s experiments seemed to travel upwards from his bedroom and lingered upstairs.

It was easy enough to avoid Mycroft these days, he stayed in his bedroom or in the library once he arrived home from work. He had been going out with Ian a lot more these days and visiting comedy clubs and the cinema on Friday nights and occasionally would return on Sunday morning without a word. 

He knew that he should have been happy that Mycroft liked Ian and seemed to be happy with him but it was rather difficult to ignore the nagging feeling that Mycroft could be doing a lot better. He was good looking but somewhat rather gawkish, extremely pretentious as well at times. He had looked at Greg horrified when he mentioned to him that his favourite film was Police Academy and had given him a list of obscure films that he should have been watching. His jokes didn’t land and his impression of Thatcher was tasteless and for some reason, Mycroft seemed to like him. 

It had been rather difficult to pretend to like him each time that he had bumped into him when he was either picking Mycroft up or dropping him off at the house. He tended to look at people over his glasses and his clothes didn’t suit him but he was ridiculously intelligent. Greg couldn’t fault him for his choice in books, it was the only thing that Greg liked about him. He soon disliked him right after, once he remembered that he was Mycroft’s boyfriend. 

He did consider going home after Mycroft and he had exchanged words. He had offered to do so and packed his bag, Mycroft refused to let him do it. He didn’t have enough money to get a hotel and Mycroft didn’t want him moving back home. It gave Greg a bit of hope that he hadn’t buggered up things completely even if they did avoid another these days. They did speak on occasion, Mycroft was professional even if rather awkward to talk to him.

He usually read when he was in the attic or he organised the old newspapers and documents that Rudy had kept in the attic. Greg had been more than thankful for the task, it kept him busy and it helped him ignore the silence and the uncomfortable awkwardness that had grown between him and Mycroft. 

He rather enjoyed spending the afternoon in the attic, his clothes covered in dust as he opened up boxes and files and organised the papers. His black clothes covered in yellow and grey dust, particles flying each time that he moved and caused him and who was ever around him to sneeze. 

He loved going through the newspapers and the feeling like the was holding a piece of history in his hands. He liked reading the old adverts for hats and cosmetics and he enjoyed the old political cartoons in them. He often went to the library days later to research the obscure things that he found in the newspapers or the stories behind the cartoons. 

He found several newspaper clippings hidden away in a file that he had to organise. They had fallen out as he picked up the file, the pages yellowed from age. They were clippings about a house fire which were stashed in a file with an odd name:  _ Sherringford.  _

It was nearly impossible to avoid the temptation of opening the file as he put the clippings back in. He knew that it wouldn’t have done much damage, it wasn’t as if Rudy would have known if he did. He decided against it, knowing that it wasn’t worth causing more damage by looking at things that he shouldn’t have done. 

It didn’t stop him from having a quick glance as he shoved the newspaper clippings back in. There was a picture of an rock-like island in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by harsh looking seas. A building, a prison perhaps, was in the middle of the rock, looking completely out of place. It made Greg think of Alcatraz but he had the odd feeling that no one ever left it. Not alive anyway. 

  
He had a bad feeling about it and it made him close the file quickly. He hid it in a box and tried to remove it from his mind, forcing a smile on his face when Sherlock poked his head from the attic door. 

He had spent more time with Sherlock over the last few weeks than Mycroft. Sherlock claimed that he needed a break away from other people, that Mycroft and Rudy exhausted him and that the attic was the only place where he could go. Sherlock rarely spoke to him at first when he was in the attic, much preferring to catch spiders and examine their webs when he was there. He often stole his cigarettes and it was only over the last few days that he had become rather chatty. 

Sherlock was often subdued when he was in the other rooms of the house or when he was with Mycroft and Rudy. He perked up and bloomed as if he was a flower seeing the sun during his more recent visits to the attic. He talked enthusiastically about his experiments and about serial killers as he tried to steal Greg’s cigarettes. They had played several games of Cluedo before Greg had decided that it was best not to do it, he couldn’t understand how the victim had done it, no matter how much Sherlock tried to explain. They had argued over it and the board ended up going out of the window. 

He had grown increasingly fond of Sherlock, he had always wanted a little brother. He didn’t mind when Sherlock showed off and told him his deductions. He really didn’t mind that Sherlock talked about murders and crime over the dinner and he rather liked it. He didn’t seem too interested in his brother and Mycroft seemed to have a similar feeling, the two of them barely interacting with another. 

“Still at those boring newspapers?” Sherlock asked, crawling up into the attic and closing the door behind him. “You must be easily entertained if you insist on being up here and organising them. Are you still avoiding Mycroft?”

“I’m not avoiding him,” Greg said quicker than he intended to, causing Sherlock to raise an eyebrow at him. 

“What did you do to upset him?” Sherlock asked. “Did you read his journal? He never speaks to me after I do it. He tries to write in code but it is easy enough to crack it. He isn’t as clever as he likes to think he is.”

“You know that you shouldn’t be doing that,” Greg said. 

“He’s written about you in it,” Sherlock said. “There are even poems, I assume that they are about you... he’s not been to France with anyone else recently, has he?”

Greg pretended not to be as interested in what Sherlock said as he was. He pretended to be more interested in the large cobwebs in the rafters than the poem that Sherlock was reciting from memory. It was a rather awful poem, it was clear that Mycroft was much better at writing prose than poetry, but he felt flattered at the same time, he had never been a subject of one before. 

  
He wondered if Mycroft had ever written poems about or for Ian. The thought of Mycroft doing something like that for anyone else felt alien and he didn’t like the thought of it too much, it bothered him more than he would care to admit. 

“What are you doing up here, squirt?” he asked, silencing Sherlock mid-stanza and ruffled his curls. He smirked as Sherlock protested and tried to sort his hair out. “Needed some time away from everyone else?”

Sherlock let out a dramatic sigh and flopped on an old wicker chair, propping his feet up on an old cardboard box. “Mycroft is being annoying.”

“What’s new?” Greg shrugged. “You always find him annoying. What’s he done this time?”

“He’s been even more annoying than usual,” Sherlock replied with a dramatic flourish. . “He’s gotten worse and I think that it correlates with you spending time in the attic. You need to apologise to him. He pays less attention to me when you are around. He’s just supervised me with my English homework! I thought that Romeo and Juliet was awful enough before! There is nothing more disgusting than my brother going on about love. I think that he talks about cake when he talks about love , I cannot imagine my brother loving anything else.”

“It’s not my favourite of Shakespeare's plays,” Greg said, deciding to ignore most parts of what Sherlock said. “You’ll like Hamlet or Macbeth better. I can recommend you to read if you want, much better than what the school makes you read.”

Sherlock let out an undignified snort that made Greg think of Mycroft. “Gavin, I find it rather difficult to believe that you studied English at Cambridge at times,” he said. “Why would I want to take book recommendations from someone who reads car magazines and has a misspelt tattoo? You hardly come across as someone who reads anything more than the back of a cereal box.”

“I’m someone who likes to escape,” he said simply, uttering out the words that he used for his university interview. “I can avoid my problems for a few hours with a book, the real world doesn’t matter for as long as I’m looking at the pages. My dad took to drinking and I went to books. Perhaps you can do the same.” 

Sherlock snorted once more, his attention focused on a large spider swinging above the rafters. He picked up the jar that he kept in the attic and he tried to catch the spider, climbing on the boxes and the furniture in the attic, not even responding to what Greg said. 

* * *

He could hear the tapping of the keys of the typewriter in Mycroft’s bedroom as he walked upstairs with a mug of tea in his hand. Greg smiled to himself involuntarily, pleased that Mycroft was still writing despite everything that had happened between them.

  
He hesitated by the door for several moments before he knocked gingerly. He felt increasingly nervous and guilty around Mycroft, hardly speaking to him these days. Even letting him know that dinner was on the table was an increasingly awkward and nerve-wracking task. 

“The door is open,” Mycroft called out, the typing momentarily stopping. 

Greg let out a breath and pushed open the wooden door, stepping into Mycroft’s room. Mycroft looked up from the typewriter and immediately took off the page that he was writing and closed his journal, putting them in his desk drawer, almost fearful that he was going to snatch them away from him. 

“What are you wanting?” Mycroft asked him, his tone cool and professional. 

  
Greg cleared his throat and held out the mug in his hand, hoping that it would be a suitable peace offering. He made no move to take the mug, making Greg place it on the desk when it started to burn his hand from the way he had been holding it. He wondered if he should have brought biscuits as well, chocolate ones as if they would somehow make things better between them. 

“I was wondering if we can talk?” Greg asked uncertainly, shuffling from one foot from the other.

“Talk about what?” Mycroft replied, his eyes not moving from his desk. “I don’t have much time to just chat, I’ve got a dissertation due in a week and I need to be working on it.”

Greg rolled his eyes and sighed. Mycroft had been using the dissertation as an excuse not to talk about him. It had been the reason why he was out all the time, apparently at university or in the library, and why he couldn’t be disturbed. It was the perfect excuse to avoid him. 

“I can edit your dissertation for you,” he offered. “It always helps to have a second pair of eyes to go over it.” 

Mycroft shook his head and let out a humourless laugh. “Then what would you do with that?” he asked cooly. “Edit it and then give it to someone else without my permission?”

“I put your name on those bloody stories!” Greg snapped. “I could have taken the credit for them if I wanted to but I’m a good mate. I’m fed up with this, I’ve apologised and done everything that I could think of. What more do you want me to do?”

It had been weeks and no matter what he had tried to do to make it up to Mycroft, nothing seemed to work. He had been increasingly fed up of the silence and the cool tone that Mycroft used for him. If he wanted to be ignored like that, he would have just gone home and spent time with his dad. He doubted that his dad would even let him through the door these days. 

“You should be thanking me if anything,” Greg grumbled, folding his arms across his chest. “You are a bloody talented writer and you are letting it go to waste keeping those stories to yourself. We both know that you wouldn’t have done anything with them unless I did what I did. You aren’t going to get anywhere in life if you don’t even attempt to try and just hide away. You certainly aren’t going to be a writer if you keep your stories to yourself. ” 

“It was not your decision to make for me!” Mycroft exclaimed, showing off most emotion than he had done over the last few weeks. Greg felt rather relieved that he had raised his voice, it meant that he was actually feeling something and not just suppressing it. “I do not go through your belongings and put them up for strangers to see.”

  
“What else can I do other than apologise?” Greg asked, deflating somewhat. “I know that I shouldn’t have done it...is there a way for us to move on from this?”

Mycroft let out a breath and shook his head, grimacing slightly. “I am not entirely sure...I accept your apology but I need time, I’m sorry.”

Greg nodded and reached over to squeeze his shoulder reassuringly, trying to ignore the feeling of something shattering inside of him. “Take as much as you need…”

Mycroft closed his eyes and grabbed his hand for a second, acknowledging him. He sighed and opened up his desk drawer and handed Greg an envelope. Greg immediately handed it back not wanting to stick his nose in things that it didn't belong 

Mycroft handed the letter to him and nodded, encouraging him to open it. Greg shook his head and placed it on the desk. 

“I got in,” Mycroft murmured as if he didn’t quite believe the words out of his mouth. “The writing course in Edinburgh...I’ve been offered a place to start in September.”

“That is amazing!” Greg beamed, wrapped his arm around Mycroft without a second thought, clapping him heavily on the shoulder. “I knew that you would get in, you are bloody brilliant!”

The grin on his face died down when he realised that Mycroft had a sombre expression on his face and did not even look the smallest amount thrilled about it. “What’s wrong?” Greg asked. “You look like you’ve been told that Christmas has been cancelled.”

“I cannot go,” Mycroft replied, a rather pained expression on his face. “I will have to write to them and let them know that I cannot take their offer.”

  
“Why not?” Greg questioned. “You would have to be bloody stupid to not take an opportunity like that.”

“I have to think about Sherlock,” Mycroft said simply. “I can’t just leave my brother while I go off to Scotland for a year. It is highly irresponsible.”

“I’ll look after him for you,” Greg said without a moment of hesitation. “I think that you should go, you don’t get opportunities like this often in life, Myc. You should say yes to it, you won’t get something like it again... I would hate for you to miss it. I can look after him for you, it is the least that I can do. “

“I’ll have to think about it,” Mycroft eventually uttered out, placing the letter back into his desk. He closed the drawer with a soft thud, ending the first conversation that they had in weeks with it. 


	21. June  1989 - The Estate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ' “I’m thinking that I am going to accept that university place,” Mycroft finally said, breaking the silence between him and Greg. '

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> T.W. Period typical homophobia.

_June 1989._

Mycroft walked up the driveway of the estate, preparing what he would say to Mummy. She hadn’t given him a reason to why she suddenly wanted to see him and hearing her voice on the phone had been a surprise, she hadn’t spoken to him in months, hardly noticing that he had permanently moved out of the family estate to live in Shepherd's Bush with Greg or in Rudy’s home that was just outside the city. 

He had little idea why she had developed an interest in seeing him out of the blue. She paid more attention to her potted plants than him when he was at home, hardly lifting her eyes from her scientific journals or her copies of _The Lady_ magazine when he tried to engage her in conversation. He hadn’t had much to say to her since he was a teenager, the few times that they spoke were about Sherlock, what Father was up to. He had the most success when he talked to her about mathematics and her previous studies, partly hoping that it would inspire her to focus on her work and help her move out of the state that she had fallen into since his sister had apparently died. 

He had requested that the driver drop him off a mile from the estate, needing the time to compose his thoughts and figure out what he would say to her. He wondered if something terrible had happened. It had to be that, he doubted that Mummy would have just wanted him around for a conversation. Their relationship was pearshaped at best but he knew that Mummy was polite enough not to pass him bad news on the phone. She did always prefer to give him bad news in person, she did like to make a scene and she couldn't use her flair for dramatics on the phone as well as she did in person. 

  
It had to be some bad news, he doubted that Mummy would suddenly take an interest in him and suddenly want to make up for her seven years of pretending that he was somewhat invisible until the rare moments that she wanted his attention. She would surely tell him that a distant relative of theirs had passed away and he would take the train home, dutifully giving Sherlock and Uncle Rudy the news, putting the two of them in mourning. It made him wonder if Rudy had a suitable outfit for mourning, something akin to what Queen Victoria wore for forty years. 

The thought amused him and Mycroft quickly scolded himself. He went through the family tree in his head as he walked up the estate, working out the probability of what family member had passed away. He wondered if it was Uncle Fredrick, a somewhat eccentric figure who liked to garden, spending most of his time in his shed away from the family, and had an impressive collection of gnomes- over 500 of them since the last time that he had spoken to Mycroft at a funeral. 

He hesitated by the door, unsure if he was meant to ring the bell or let himself in. He went through the staff gate of the estate, the route allowed him to have a much more pleasant walk to the house than through the front. The path was longer but it allowed him to gather his thoughts, procrastinating from visiting his mother. 

He decided to knock on the door rather than use his key, it was much more professional and he was a guest. He had not been at home since last November, hardly seeing the need to pay for a train fare if Sherlock was in his old school, boarding full-time. He had only visited Sherlock, he was the only person that Mycroft would put up with being ignored and only being communicated to through letters by his mother. 

He brought a bag with him, deciding that he would pick up a few of his belongings that he left in the house and a few of Sherlock’s as well. He was feeling kind and decided to take Sherlock’s less horrific experiments with him as well as his books and clothes. 

It was the maid that opened up the door to him, a sad smile on her face that Mycroft did not understand. It almost resembled a look of pity that was directed to him, she never offered to take his coat or his bag, Mycroft assuming that Mummy was only wanting a fleeting visit and would want him out in fifteen minutes. 

The maid told him that Mummy was in the library before she excused herself. Mycroft tried to hide the feeling of dread that washed over him, a bundle of nerves tightened around in his stomach, causing him to feel rather nauseous. 

He straightened up the tie that he wore for the occasion, Mummy would be horrified if he wore something casual for a visit. He ran his fingers through his hair before he knocked on the door, letting himself after several moments of silence, she never did summon guests. 

She was fully dressed, looking as if she was about to go out or she had returned from the country club, far from the black outfit that Mycroft imagined that she would be wearing. Her hair had been newly styled and her perfume was strong, catching the back of Mycroft’s throat. Her eyes were intimidating and she did not smile or stand to greet him, hardly acknowledging his presence as he walked into the room, standing by the chair, unsure if he was allowed to sit or not. 

“Hello, Mummy. I see that you are looking rather well,” Mycroft greeted her. 

He stood by the chair for several moments, not sure if he was allowed to sit or not. He rested his hand on the back of it gingerly as it was hot to the touch, deciding to sit down after several moments, perching on the edge of the chair, afraid to get comfortable. He never did feel comfortable on the antique furniture that she liked to decorate the house with, a far cry from the comfortable armchairs in Rudy’s home. 

“I’ve managed to do rather well at university,” Mycroft said, deciding to speak as it was evident that Mummy was unlikely to speak first, the silence that filled the library was oppressing. “I've managed to get a first and I have already got an unconditional offer for a postgraduate degree- several actually. I do hope that you are pleased with it- ”

“Sherlock has written me a rather interesting letter,” Mummy said rather coolly, pulling out an envelope from her desk drawer. “You never do write to me, Sherlock always does and his letters are so interesting.” 

Her eyes were piercing and her words clipped as she spoke. Mycroft felt himself shrink in his chair, trying to ignore his feeling of wanting to flee from the estate. She was the only person who could make him feel like that, small and as if his tongue was tied and unable to speak. 

He wondered what Greg saw in him when he gifted him that cactus, claiming that he thought of him as brave. He must have been lying to him, trying to bolster his confidence before he went on the stage. It must have been that, lying to him out of kindness. 

“What did Sherlock write about?” Mycroft asked the words were difficult to force out. 

  
“It was an interesting letter,” she said, reading it over. “He wrote about how you and someone called Greg took him to the Science Museum and the Natural History Museum.”

“It was only a day out,” Mycroft replied rather quickly, shifting in the chair as it was covered in needles. “He had done rather well with his grades in school and I thought that he deserved a reward. He has been having some problems with his new school recently and I thought that it was suitable to reward him for his attendance as well.”

“He also mentioned something rather interesting in his letter,” she said, a steel-like quality in her voice that seemed to remove any of the remaining traces of courage that Mycroft managed to keep hold of. “Who is Ian? “

Mycroft swallowed hard, suddenly feeling rather nauseous. “ A friend,” he said, keeping his voice rather level with some difficulty. “He is just a university friend, his family have good connections and I assumed that he would be suitable to network with him. His mother works in a gallery and his father works in France, he might run in the same circles as Father.”

“There is something that you are not telling me,” she said, a knowing tone to her voice. “ He is more than just a friend, I know that he is. I think that it is polite that you tell me even though I already know. I’ve known for years, it’s obvious what you are.”

Mycroft swallowed hard and decided to stand up, unable to remain in the chair. “There is little point in telling you if you already know,” he said, forcing the words out, a stone had formed in his throat. “Do you have problems with me being a homosexual? A queer? Is that why you had me come to visit you?”

She shook her head, her hair not moving due to the product in it, her eyes were more focused on the magazine that she decided to ready. “If I have to be honest, I do not care,” she said coldly. 

Mycroft almost let out a relieved breath at what she said but she spoke again. 

  
“I would rather much prefer it that you kept it to yourself,” she said, a venomous tone coating her words. “I just hope that you realised that you’ve chosen a life of loneliness for yourself. That you will be alone forever. You’ll never be loved properly. I just thought that it was polite to let you know in person that I don't want you coming home or being involved in the family, you’ll embarrass me horribly. I have not told your father, Mycroft, but I can be assured that he would be ashamed.”

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak and felt his bottom lip quiver. He swallowed hard and pushed back any traces of emotion that were threatening to come out. “Thank you for letting me know,” he said, trying to keep his voice level. “I do wish that you did just telephone me, it would have saved us time in our day and a train fare for me. I am going to collect several of my belongings and Sherlocks, may I use the telephone?”

She did not respond, her attention focused on the magazine that she was reading. She hardly looked up as he left the room and entered the hall to use the telephone. His hand shook rather violently as he dialled the number, having to take several attempts to get the right number and for the line to pick up. 

He dialled the number two times without a result. The third he called, the line picked up and he could hear Greg’s voice on the phone, sounding slightly gruff as if he had just gotten out of bed despite it being past one in the afternoon. His voice was a comfort that Mycroft did not know that he needed at this moment of time. 

“Hello?” Greg grumbled. “Is that you, Myc?”

  
Mycroft swallowed hard, trying to force away from the wetness in his voice. He tried to put a professional tone to his voice, the voice that he used on the phone when he was at work for government officials but it crumbled as he spoke. “Greg, can you pick me up?” he asked. 

“Where are you?” Greg asked. 

Mycroft could hear him fishing around for the keys in the bowl as soon as he spoke. “I’m in Sussex,” he said, “I’m at the estate...I know that it is quite a distance. I can just find other means to get back.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Greg said. “I know the address from when I helped you get your things. I’m on my way.”

Mycroft swallowed hard and let out a watery breath, scolding himself for getting upset about what his mother said to him. “Thank you,” he said, unable to get any other words out. “I’m going to be bringing several boxes with me and you know to use the staff gate.”

“Everything alright?” Greg asked with a concerned tone. “You sound like you are upset.”

Mycroft swallowed and tried to push down the stone in his throat. He nodded even though Greg could not see him on the other side of the phone, trying to convince himself that he was alright. “I’m fine,” he fibbed. “I ended up losing my wallet and I didn’t have a way to get home.”

He heard Greg sigh and knew that there was a frown on his face. “I’m going to be there as quickly as I can, just stay home. I’ll take you out for some chips when we are back home, sounds like a rough day.” 

“You could describe it like that,” Mycroft let out a bitter laugh despite himself. “Thank you so much.”

He put down the phone and went upstairs to his old bedroom, starting to organise the books that he was going to take with him. He tried to ignore the feeling that something had broken in him, he did not know if it was possible to have done so. He wondered if the damage that he had acquired from speaking to Mummy could be considered to be good damage and perhaps he would be able to make something beautiful out of it.

If there wasn’t, then his visit to Mummy and the resulting heartbreak from it hadn’t been worth it. 

* * *

Greg didn’t ask him any questions, quietly taking the bin bags and boxes of his and Sherlock’s belongings to the car. He was wearing his pyjamas trousers with a jumper thrown on the top of it, not bothering to get dressed once he had rolled out of bed to answer the phone.   
  
Mycroft was pleased to see him in his dishevelled state, pretending that he simply wanted to move more of his belongings to Rudy’s house. He did not trust himself to speak without his voice cracking, tactfully ignoring Greg’s questions about what was wrong. 

He did not even comment when Greg accidentally knocked over an eighteenth-century vase with a cardboard box, simply hiding the broken pieces inside the vase and turning it around to hide the cracks. He fibbed to Greg, telling him that it was a replica instead of a prized family heirloom that was estimated to cost thousands of pounds when it was evaluated at Christie's. 

Greg seemed to pick up something, Mycroft was not entirely sure how he managed to do so, and he had stopped Greg from going into the library and speaking to his mother. He knew that Mummy would be horrified to have a stranger in his pyjamas telling her off and swearing at her. As much as he was upset with her, Mycroft knew that it was kinder not to let her have to deal with Greg when he was in a bad mood- she was his mother even though she had broken his heart. 

They hardly spoke when they were in the car once everything was packed. Greg ‘accidentally,’ drove through the main entrance and on the grass despite the wooden ‘do not walk’ signs that were by the grass. Mycroft did not comment on it, feeling slightly amused with Greg’s behaviour despite his mood, he never walked on the grass on the estate, not wanting to displease his mother and the signs. 

“I’m thinking that I am going to accept that university place,” Mycroft finally said, breaking the silence between him and Greg. 

  
Greg turned the volume down, deciding at that moment to place another tape in the stereo, a mixtape that he made and sent to Mycroft when he was in France. “You are going to go to Edinburgh?” Greg asked. “I know that you’ve been on the fence about going especially about Sherlock...why the change in heart?”

Mycroft sighed and blinked hard, trying to ignore the feeling of hurt that had settled in his heart and could not seem to shift or be ignored. “I think that I am needing some time away...I don’t think that I can be here, not now at least. I’m needing some time to think.”

  
“And you can’t do that in England?” Greg asked, pulling the car to the side of the country road. “What are you needing to think about? What happened with your mum, Myc?”

Mycroft let out a breath and swallowed hard. “I thought that you were wanting me to go to Edinburgh? You did apply for that course for me.”

“I don’t want you to just go because something bad has happened,” Greg said, turning to look at him. “I don't want you running away or leaving a place on bad terms. I know that something has happened, what is it?”

Mycroft shook his head and grabbed Greg’s hand, squeezing it hard. “You are allowed to visit me when you wish...I think that I’m needing to do this. You said that I need to take the opportunity when it is given to me.”

Greg nodded and squeezed his hand, almost reluctant to let it go. He smiled but it did not quite reach his eyes. “You know that we are going to have some amazing nights out in Scotland and there are some great museums,” he said cheerfully, failing to hide that he was not entirely thrilled with his decision. “I’m expecting to have you send me shortbread in the post or you will be a rubbish mate. I don’t want you picking up a new best mate or forgetting about me.”

Mycroft snorted. “You have such little faith in me, Gregory. I will be expecting you to be visiting when you can and spending a fortune at the post office sending you shortbread. ”

Greg let out a breath of a laugh and looked at Mycroft with a serious expression on his face. “Are you sure that this is what you actually want to do?” he asked. "It feels like a big decision to make, uprooting yourself just to think about things. "

Mycroft shrugged, not quite sure of the answer himself. “I can always get a train back to London if I don’t like it,” he said. “I’m needing to do this, Greg. I need some time away and think...put myself first for once. I do hope that you understand.”

Greg nodded and swallowed hard. “I’ll take you to the train station or drive you up there if you want, make a holiday out of it and help you settle in.”

  
“I’d love that,” Mycroft said simply, a hint of a smile forming on his face. 


	22. September 1989-  Edinburgh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> '“I’m doing a postgraduate degree, Gregory,” Mycroft scolded him, squashed against the wall by the bed frame as Greg turned the corner. “I do not have the time to party or bed hop. I’m going to be focusing on my course and my writing, I’ve got a job as well. I did not come up to Edinburgh to have fun.”
> 
> “And I thought that you were here for the men in kilts,” Greg said dryly, swearing as he dropped the bed on his foot.'

_ September 1989 _

The bed was the most difficult thing to take up the spiral staircase. Greg had insisted that they didn’t need any movers and that they would be fine without them; that they had managed to move their belongings into the flat Shepherds Bush just fine by themselves and that they would be able to do the same in Edinburgh. 

“This is not going to work,” Mycroft groaned for the eighth time in ten minutes. The bed frame dug horribly into his hands and he felt wobbly on the stairs, almost fearing if his hands were going to drop off or he was going to fall back down the spiral staircase. “Let’s take it downstairs, one of the neighbours might have a drill and we can take it apart.”

Greg shook his head and definitely walked up another stair, heaving heavily as he tugged the bed up the corner. “We are halfway up the stairs and we are going to get this bloody bed in this flat of yours even if I do it myself. Why couldn’t you get a flat that was on the ground floor?”

“It was the best that I could do at a short notice,” Mycroft breathed out, adjusting his hands on the bed frame, trying to get rid of the cramp. He felt as if his fingers or his wrists were going to break from the bed, he worried about injuring them, it would hinder his writing. “You claimed that we didn’t need movers.”

“You could have gotten a bed from Ikea and we could have built it up in the flat!” Greg groaned. “There was a bed already in the flat, you didn’t need to get a new one. You are a student, you are meant to spend as little time in the flat as possible, going partying and spending it in someone else’s bed.” 

With a grunt, Greg tugged the bed up the corner and took a wobbly step up the stairs, instructing Mycroft to pivot it. “ Come on Myc, it’s only ten more stairs.”

“I’m doing a postgraduate degree, Gregory,” Mycroft scolded him, squashed against the wall by the bed frame as Greg turned the corner. “I do not have the time to party or bed hop. I’m going to be focusing on my course and my writing, I’ve got a job as well. I did not come up to Edinburgh to have fun.”

“And I thought that you were here for the men in kilts,” Greg said dryly, swearing as he dropped the bed on his foot. “ You owe me massively for this. I’ve broken my bloody foot getting this bed up the stairs.” 

“It’s only ten more stairs,” Mycroft said teasingly even though his arms felt as if they were going to drop off. “We’ve got the mattress to get up next.”

  
Greg swore loudly, losing his grip on the bed, causing Mycroft to get shoved into the wall once more. 

* * *

The flat was not one that he would have picked for himself, it was the best that he could do in short notice and in his price range, but it was his. His budget had been reduced somewhat after his conversation with Mummy and he refused to rely on Uncle Rudy for money, deciding that would have to rely on himself as he was an adult. 

The flat was on the top floor of a converted Georgian townhouse that had been turned into several flats. His flat was on the top of the building where the servants once slept in the attics. The glass in the windows and the wooden window sills had the names of the servants scratched in over the years along with a crude drawing that was dated in the mid-nineteenth century. He hoped that it would inspire a story within him. 

The flat was rather dark despite the lights and the windows, he would need to get several lamps to brighten the place up as he wrote. The landlord’s attempt at decorating the flat was minimal, the floral wallpaper was peeling and there was the strong smell of paint, a recent attempt to hide damp spots and mould. 

His living room was in the kitchen if he could call it that. He hadn’t gotten a sofa or an armchair just yet, the only pieces of living room furniture that he had was his bookshelves and a table which would become his makeshift desk. He would buy more furniture once he had started his new job in the council among with the projects that Uncle Rudy would send him. The previous tenants had left a kitchen table, chairs and a kettle along with other bits of kitchen equipment that Mycroft knew that he would never use. 

“Some view that you’ve got,” Greg commented, nodding in the direction of the window. “Makes up for nearly breaking my foot getting the bloody bed up the stairs. It wasn’t that difficult getting the stuff into the flat in London.”

Mycroft walked over to the window, smiling to himself as he took in the view. He could get the glimpse of a park and he believed that he could get the glimpse of the Scott monument, he wasn’t too sure, he was a stranger in the city and only knew how to get to university, his new office, and the train station. He would explore later on, fully immersing himself in his new city whether he had a free moment. 

“I’m hoping that it will end up being inspiring,” Mycroft said, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards. He traced his fingers across the windowpane, across the names of the people who once stayed in attics, the names scratched on the glass with great care decades ago. “Edinburgh seems to make writers, it’s like London. There is something about the city that inspires creativity..”

  
“It’s a beautiful place,” Greg nodded, pushing the pizza box over to Mycroft and passed him a bottle of beer, opening it up using the counter instead of a bottle opener. 

  
“You shouldn't do that,” Mycroft scolded, not sure if he should be horrified and impressed with Greg’s ability to open up the bottles without an opener. “You are going to damage the countertops.” 

Greg looked at him for a moment and shook his head. “That is such an adult thing to say,” he commented. “ That is something that my mum would say. It’s like you’ve just aged twenty years and become a middle-aged housewife by saying that.” 

“It is my counters and I wouldn’t want them to get damaged,” Mycroft replied, accepting the bottle from Greg. He picked up a slice of pizza, using napkins instead of a plate to save the counter’s from getting dirty, he hadn’t had any plates just yet. “This is my home and I’m intending for it to stay nice. I might be a student but I am not going to live in squalor.”

“I’m going to give it a week and you’ll be leaving mugs all over the kitchen and bedroom and there will be a pile of dishes in the sink,” Greg snorted, sipping his beer. “You are going to be living off take-away without having me cook for you, I’ve seen two Indian takeaways, a Chinese restaurant, three cafes, and a chip shop that are a ten-minute walking distance from your flat, bet that the only thing in the kitchen that you use while you are here is the kettle. Did you even look at that recipe book that I gave you?”

Mycroft took a sip of his beer, pulling a face at the bitter taste of it. He put the bottle down on the counter and passed it to Greg, not understanding why Greg liked to drink it and claimed to like the taste. He wondered if Greg was lying, only drinking to get drunk. “I can use a toaster and I can poach an egg, I won’t starve,” he said. “I should be fine, I won’t need you to stay with me and act as my personal chef.”

“There goes my plans,” Greg said, attempting to joke but it fell somewhat flat. He tried to smile but it did not reach his eyes. He looked rather sad and had done so over the last week two, but only when Mycroft wasn’t looking at him, Mycroft always saw it, catching glimpses from the corner of his eye or in reflections. 

They sat at the kitchen table, not eating the pizza. Greg seemed more intent in playing with his pizza instead of eating it. Mycroft had tried to eat a slice but it stuck in his throat horribly and tasted flavourless as if he had decided to eat cardboard. 

“I’m only going to be in Edinburgh for a year,” Mycroft said, wiping his fingers with the napkin once he had realised that neither he or Greg had spoken for some time. “I’m treating this as if it was an extended holiday then I am going to be back in London. I will be visiting regularly to see my brother and I suppose that I can find time to go to the pub or to a chip shop with you.”

“Are you sure that this is what you want?” Greg asked hesitantly. “This is not a flat that I can see you being happy in.”

The question seemed to have been on his mind for some time. Mycroft believed that it had been ever since he told him that he was going to Edinburgh in the first place. He couldn’t understand why Greg seemed to have changed his mind about going to Edinburgh even though he had applied for him to get onto the course, no matter how much thought Mycroft put towards the matter. 

“I’ve already paid my deposit and a month’s rent,” Mycroft shrugged. “I have my first class on Tuesday morning. I need to give this a chance before I make my mind on it. “

“Are you actually sure that this is what you want?” Greg asked again. He opened another bottle of beer using the kitchen table, causing the lid to come off with an audible pop. 

  
“What do you mean?” Mycroft asked. 

Greg shrugged and took a sip of beer, and did not speak for several moments, opening his mouth and closing it again several times. “Most people when they want to have a change dye their hair or get a piercing, perhaps have a questionable fling, they don’t move to Edinburgh.” 

“You were the one who applied for me to go to university here.” 

“And you weren’t going to go until recently,” Greg sighed. “You were rather against the idea and weren’t even thinking about going to a writing class.”

Mycroft peeled the label off his bottle, partly to keep his hands occupied and to avoid looking at Greg. He sighed and when it had become difficult to talk to Greg, it had increasingly become more difficult to do so as he made his preparations to go to university. “I just need to do this,” he murmured. “I need to have a change and have some time to think.”

“Think about what?” Greg asked. Couldn’t you think about what you need to think about back home?”

  
Mycroft pretended to not hear Greg’s question, his eyes were glued to the label that he was peeling, intent on removing all the while stickers that remained on the bottle from where the label was peeled away. 

“It’s because of me, isn’t it?” Greg asked, flatly. “I know that it’s been difficult to be friends ever since Christmas and I’ve made things more difficult.”

Mycroft quickly shook his head. “You shouldn’t flatter yourself too much,” he said, reaching over and grabbing Greg’s shoulder, hoping that the gesture would be comforting. “I just need some time away from London and do something that I want, you keep saying that I need to take opportunities.”

  
Greg brushed his hand off and stood up with his bottle in hand, deciding to unpack the books that were still in cardboard boxes in the living room. “ Then why do I have the feeling that this is going to be the last time that we ever talk to another? “

“What gives you that idea?” Mycroft asked, a puzzled expression on his face. “It is not like I have moved to the Antarctic or phone’s do not exist!”

Greg shrugged and muttered something under his brother before he spoke, shaking his head. He made little effort to hide the sad expression on his face from him. “I just know how it goes,” he uttered. “We say that we are going to make the effort and it won’t be different, but then life gets in the way. You get too busy to answer the phone or make a call, and then one of us forgets to reply to a letter, then it gets awkward. You end up making a few new interesting friends, more interesting than I am, and I get busy with work. Then we just don’t have anything to say to another.”

  
Mycroft shook his head, not understanding what Greg was saying and felt hurt that Greg thought that he would abandon him or thought of him as a bad friend. “I would never do that to you,” he said.

“Admit it,” Greg said, throwing a hand in the air. “Things haven’t been the same since Christmas after we slept together and I keep making things worse.”

“Greg,” Mycroft sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This is not about you in the slightest.”

  
“Then what is it about? You weren't going in the first place and you’ve changed your mind,” Greg questioned, his eyes were focused on the books, helping him unpack as he shoved them on the shelves. “You got rid of Ian before you moved up and it won’t be long until you are rid of me. I have told you that I’m sorry and I shouldn’t have sent your things away. You don’t have to avoid me.”

“My mother is no longer speaking to me and has disowned me. I just needed to get away for a while, it isn’t too much to ask for. ” Mycroft snapped, he cleared his throat and apologised for his outburst. 

Greg dropped the books in his hand, they felt too the floor with a loud thud. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked. “That’s what happened when I picked you up from your mum’s isn’t it?” 

Mycroft sat down on the kitchen chair and nodded his head, he bit his lip to stop it quivering. He scolded himself for still being so bothered about it. It wasn’t as if she had lied to him, he already knew from a young age that he would be alone and that he would never be loved properly- it seemed something that was reserved for normal people. 

  
“She said that I was going to be alone and that I would never be loved,” Mycroft uttered. “I suppose that there is an element of truth towards it.”

“You know that it isn’t true,” Greg said, wrapping an arm around Mycroft. “She is a witch and she is completely wrong. I know what it is like and you could have spoken to me about it.”

“It will pass,” Mycroft uttered. 

It was a phrase that he constantly uttered to himself in an attempt to provide some comfort to himself over the years. He uttered it to himself after getting picked on by his fellow students in school and when he got his belongings taken away from him or when he had gotten his head flushed in the toilet by an older student after being a smartarse with his deductions. He used the phrase constantly during the unhappy weekends and silent Christmases that he spent at home with his family. He uttered it to himself when Greg had girlfriends and quite possibly a bit in love with him and knew that his feelings wouldn’t be returned. He knew that it was just a rough spot that he was in but he knew that he would eventually move on and that it will pass. It had to do or his sadness would last forever and there wouldn’t be any good to come out of the damage. 

  
“You know that you are allowed to be upset by it,” Greg said, forcing Mycroft to look at him. “I’m still angry and upset about what happened with my dad. If anyone was going to understand, I am going to be that person.”

“I was never close to my mother and I did not expect it to have such an impact,” Mycroft sighed, shaking his head at his ridiculousness. “I thought that if I went to Edinburgh and took some time away then I would be fine.”

“You know that feelings don’t work that way?” Greg sighed. “Were you hoping that you could use this damage as material for a book along with everything that has happened this year? Alex and Ian? University stress? Everything that I’ve done to mess up? Heartbreak?”

“You have never broken my heart,” Mycroft murmured, giving Greg a serious look. “Even when you have done things to upset me and everything that has gone wrong, you have never done that.”

He covered his nose with his hand to stop Greg from seeing his fib. He had broken his heart several times, mostly when Mycroft once believed that he was in love with him. He wasn’t too sure if the feeling would ever leave him, he had tried to replicate the feelings with Alex and Ian but it was never quite the same. He did hope to move on eventually or at least take what he could get from Greg, knowing that it was better to have him as a friend than not at all. 

“I am still going to be your friend and you shouldn’t worry about losing me,” Mycroft said. “I don’t have friends, I’ve just got the one.” 

Greg shoved his hands in his pockets as if he could disappear into them, unsure what to say but he looked touched by what he said, his smile looking rather wet. “Me too.”

  
He cleared his throat and took another swig of beer. “Why don’t we do a bit of sightseeing tomorrow? A few museums and book shops? Arthurs Seat? Anything that you want to do before I go to London.”

“I have a few more days before I go to university and you start police training,” Mycroft said, giving Greg his best attempt at a smile. “Do you want to stay for a few more days? I have a few pieces of furniture that needs to get put up as well and you know how to use a screwdriver.”

“Throw in an Indian take away and I’m for it,” Greg said, clinking his bottle against Mycroft’s. “Extra naan and poppadoms.”

“I wouldn't expect anything less,” Mycroft grinned. 


	23. November 1989 -Loneliness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'One can experience loneliness anywhere in the world; Mycroft had experienced it no matter where he was. He often wondered if people went through life without really feeling close to anyone or if it was a problem that only he had experienced. '

_ November 1989 _

One can experience loneliness anywhere in the world; Mycroft had experienced it no matter where he was. He often wondered if people went through life without really feeling close to anyone or if it was a problem that only he had experienced. 

He had experienced loneliness all of his life but it had never bothered him too much; he did always prefer his own company. He understood the loneliness that he felt when he was younger; it was created for him by the people around him and the environment that he was in without giving him a say about it. 

He welcomed loneliness, believing that he did best on his own. It was safe and no one could bother him. He did not have to worry about his apparent social errs and flaws, being in situations where he didn’t know what to say or talking about something that he was passionate about without knowing the other person was bored. He didn’t get his belongings stolen from him, a bloody nose, or purposely socially excluded and ignored if he had said the wrong thing, accidentally or had come off as being too blunt. 

He believed that loneliness suited him just fine. He struggled to relate to other people at times, finding them messy and complex for the most part. He knew that they felt the same about him, only a few seemed to understand him or at least weren’t too put off by him. 

  
  


After being in Edinburgh for several months, Mycroft discovered that there was a new flavour of loneliness to experience; being surrounded by thousands of people coming in and out of the city, becoming part of an indistinguishable sea of people. Mycroft never thought that loneliness was possible in the city, the concept sounded strange and foreign as there were always bodies around him.

  
He had never felt lonely when he was in London. There were times when he was on his own in London and he enjoyed his own company, but he was never lonely. He had his family and he had Greg, filling in the gaps with his interactions with his classmates and Ian. His mind had been so occupied with his dissertation, his work among other matters, never letting him be alone with his thoughts.

He started to wonder if people went around their whole lives without ever feeling close to anyone after his second month in Edinburgh. He started to think about it regularly after he had gone another month without having a letter from Greg and not getting a phone call in quite some time. 

He wrote to Greg as regularly as he had done so before; a letter that was several pages and that would arrive on Monday morning for Greg. He had taken up to writing two letters a week, filled with everything that he read for university and what he had discovered in Edinburgh on the days and nights that he had spent on his own; one could not be lonely if they were writing to someone else. 

He had assumed that Greg had lost his address or had gotten it wrong and it had been the reason why he hadn’t written to him. He had made sure that his new address was written clearly on each envelope and in the letter as well so that Greg would be able to write back.

  
He had assumed that Greg had just been too busy to write after finishing up his police training and starting his new job. He would have assumed that Greg would have at least had the time to call him back no matter how busy he was and even if he had started to fool around with his flatmate. He would have at least had time to pick up the phone, surely sleeping with Andy wouldn't take up his whole day. He still had made time for Greg when he was seeing Ian. 

He couldn't understand why the gaps between Greg’s letters and the delays between his phone calls were happening, no matter how much thought Mycroft put into the matter. He couldn’t understand and wondered if he had perhaps done or said something wrong, causing Greg to almost forget him.

Greg was the one who worried that their friendship wouldn’t last and that they would grow distant from another, perhaps Greg somehow knew what was going to happen or had planned for it. Mycroft shook his head against the idea; it was utterly ridiculous. He had told and reassured Greg many times that they would always be friends, perhaps Greg just didn’t believe him. 

  
He wondered if something had happened and Greg hadn’t been able to contact him. He wondered if Andy was actually taking up his time, briefly entertaining the idea that he had taken Greg hostage or had murdered him until Sherlock answered the phone when he had called and told him that Greg took him to the museum and bought him a book on British hangmen. 

He had started to write to several of the members of the drama society in Cambridge in the attempt to ignore his loneliness and so that his post did not consist of bills and the occasional letter from Uncle Rudy. 

He had received several letters from the members of the drama society, there were long gaps between his letter and the reply and they weren’t as interesting as the ones that Greg would send him. He had forgotten how awkward the first few letters were when writing to someone, having more thought into each letter and trying to decipher someone else's handwriting.

He tried to ignore any feelings of loneliness that he experienced, keeping himself occupied at all moments, preventing his mind from wandering or from missing Greg. He spent the majority of the time by his desk, working on the coursework or the projects that Uncle Rudy had given him- work from the cryptography department. 

He spent hours wandering around Edinburgh during the weekends and his afternoons once he had to take a break from writing, taking in all of the history and discovering the hidden gems of the city; mainly the bookshops. He made himself join drama society but found himself more comfortable in a backstage role and assisting with writing than performing this time around. 

It was the evenings that he found the most difficult and wished that he had company. It was the only time that he wondered if going to Edinburgh was a sensible decision with the loneliness that he felt. He knew that he shouldn’t have felt lonely as he had made the decision to go. 

After not having a letter from Greg for a month and no phone calls, he briefly considered phoning Ian and inviting him up. He knew that Ian would take the train up to see him without a second thought as he was that nice. He didn’t seem to harbour any harsh feelings towards him even though he had been the one who suggested to Ian that they take a break, Ian was prepared to go to Edinburgh the moment that Mycroft mentioned that he had gotten into university. 

He decided against it once the thought came into his head, doubting that he could cope with Ian doing his impression of Thatcher again and his obsession with watching horror films, providing in-depth analysis of them throughout the film and once they left the cinema together. He briefly considered overlooking the impressions as Ian was nice and he could make him laugh on occasion, and it was much better to have something than not.

He wondered if he should try and get a cat to keep him company, he knew that one would do a much better job than Ian and would make less mess. 

He spent his evenings working on his coursework and his attempt of a novel until the words didn’t look right and he started to question the spellings of them.. He made himself dinner, it was always the same most evenings, beans and toast or some type of pasta, cheese sandwiches if he couldn’t be bothered cooking. He tried to ignore the urge to eat takeaways the best that he could. He read the books that he had borrowed from the library and tried to work on the script that he was working on for the drama society. He would do the crossword in the newspaper that he had bought that morning before he went to bed. 

  
It was a monogamous routine but he wasn’t too sure what to do. He knew that writing to Greg and talking to him on the phone would take up several hours of the week, and he hadn’t quite figured out how to fill them now. 

He considered going back to London several times a week, unsure if he was happy in Edinburgh. He thought that he would at least be somewhat content that he was in a place that he longed to be in and he was in a course that he enjoyed. He knew that he couldn’t go back, not yet, and wanted to finish off the course, knowing too well that it was his only opportunity to do something that he wanted. 

The buzzer to his flat went off at half-past nine that evening, making Mycroft lift his head from his crossword. He did not respond to it at first, not even glimpsing up from the crossword, assuming that someone had pressed the wrong button and had wanted someone else. He hadn’t a visitor since he had arrived and it was unlikely that he would get one. 

As he worked on the answer for twenty across on the puzzle, the buzzer again. Mycroft put down his puzzle upon hearing the buzzer go off for the third time, he slipped on his dressing gown and went to the phone and picked it up.

“Who is it?” Mycroft asked in his most polite voice even if he was unamused at having to be social at this time of the evening. 

“Myc, it’s me.”

  
“Greg?” Mycroft asked, trying to sound less enthusiastic as he did when he heard Greg’s tinny voice on the phone. “What are you doing in Edinburgh?” 

Greg didn’t answer but Mycroft buzzed him in without a moment of hesitation. He frantically tried to tidy up the mess on the table, hiding his dirty dishes in the kitchen drawer so that Greg couldn’t see them, worried that Greg would somehow think of him less if he could see signs of him living in the flat and having things like clothes on a drying wrack and dirty dishes in his home. 

If he had time, he would have gotten dressed even if Greg had seen him in his pyjamas before. He ran his fingers through his hair to make it look more presentable once he heard Greg’s footsteps on the landing. 

He opened up the door before Greg had the chance to knock, his smile turning into a frown once he caught a glimpse of Greg. 

  
The first thing that Mycroft noticed was his eyes, there seemed to be something missing behind them. The warmth that they usually had been taken away and they looked bloodshot and with dark circles under them. He looked as if he hadn’t slept properly for three...no, four days. He hadn’t shaved and was wearing the clothes from the night before. He looked rather pale and as if he was about to topple over with a strong gust of wind. The sight made Mycroft’s heart ache. 

“What has happened?” Mycroft asked.   


Greg tried to smile at him but it didn’t reach his eyes, they looked rather sad if Mycroft had to describe them. “Can I stay over for a few days?” he asked, his voice cracking slightly as he spoke. 

“Of course,” Mycroft nodded, opening up the door to his flat and taking Greg’s bag for him. He guided him into the sofa with a hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t I stick the kettle on?” 


	24. November 1989 - The  Biscuit Debate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why is switching on the kettle and making tea your reaction to anything happening? It’s almost Pavlovian.”

_ November 1989. _

“Why is switching on the kettle and making tea your reaction to anything happening? It’s almost Pavlovian.”

It was the first thing that Greg had said since had got into the flat, taking Mycroft by surprise. He normally laughed or sounded amused when he made comments about Mycroft's tea making, the words were flat this time. He had been curled up the sofa, staring at the wall or at the bookshelves without a word, looking incredibly small on the armchair; his arms wrapped tightly around himself as if he was trying to give himself a hug. 

The exhaustion radiated off him and it was a pitiful sight; making Mycroft’s heart ache just by looking at him. He was not sure if he was meant to hug Greg, unsure if it was the appropriate response or not; Greg gave out hugs freely but did not come off as the type who would ask for one. He did not know if it was appropriate to hug him, they hadn’t spoken to another in a month and Mycroft hardly knew what to say to him.

He hardly knew what to do, he had never seen Greg look so openly upset before. He usually hid it, only allowing the smile to drop and to look sad when he thought that no one was looking.

“Tea never goes wrong,” Mycroft said with a tone of uncertainty, unsure of what he should say. “It is perfect for any occasion and for any emotion.”

Greg let out an amused noise, more of an intake of breath than a laugh. Mycroft made up two large mugs of tea; unsure if he was supposed to offer Greg something stronger. He had a bottle of port in the kitchen but no glasses, he hadn't gotten around to buying himself any. He doubted that Greg would appreciate wine served in a Van Gogh mug; he didn’t even like wine. Mycroft decided against the wine and decided to put extra sugar in Greg’s tea instead to see if it helped perk him up. 

  
“I’ve got biscuits if you would like one?” Mycroft said, realising that Greg had not spoken in a long time. “I don’t have any of the chocolate ones that you like though, I’ve got fig rolls, rich teas. I might even have custard creams in the cupboard.”

He waited for Greg’s reply which never arrived. Mycroft let out a sigh, wishing that he could do more than to make tea and leg Greg stay for as long as he needed. He opened up the cupboard and took out a packet of biscuits and put them and the mugs on the tea tray, carrying it over to the coffee table. 

He pulled over the uncomfortable wooden chair that he sat on when he worked at his desk and sat opposite Greg. He gave him a reassuring smile and pushed Greg’s mug of sugary tea in his direction. “I thought that you would like custard creams, I know that you really liked them,” he rambled somewhat redundantly. “Do you remember that debate that we had over biscuits? You complained that rich teas were apparently boring and that chocolate digestives were apparently the best of all biscuits. I am still convinced that chocolate Hobnobs are the best type. They are wonderful for dunking and the name is amusing.”

He decided to stop talking, aware that his rambling was possibly annoying Greg than actually doing any good. He had only wanted to cheer him up.

“How have things been?” Mycroft asked the silence was deafening. He picked up his mug and tugged at the hem of his dressing gown, feeling rather underdressed and unsure if he should change his clothes or not. “I have written to you, I don’t know if I have been sending things to the wrong address though. Your flat is in Spitalfields? Fournier Street?”

  
Greg nodded and picked up the tea, cupping the mug in two hands and holding it close to his chest, trying to warm himself up. 

  
“It is rather chilly tonight and I think that my radiator is having problems again. It is the trouble with old buildings,” Mycroft said, retrieving the quilt off his bed and draping it around Greg without being prompted to. He hoped that it would be able to provide some comfort to him. 

He sat down on the wooden chair once more, wishing that he could do more or that he knew what to say or do to make things better. He knew that he would happily give up his book collection in a heartbeat if he knew that it had the slightest chance to make things to make Greg feel better. 

  
“How long are you wanting to stay for?” Mycroft asked, clearing his throat. “Not that I am trying to get rid of you or anything, you can stay for as long as you need.”

  
“I am meant to be back on work for Wednesday,” Greg said, his voice low and rough, sounding as if he hadn’t used it for several days or he had been crying. 

  
“Oh,” Mycroft said, trying to sound cheerful. “Was it a holiday that you had or just days off?”

Greg did not say anything for several moments. He looked at Mycroft and sighed, scrubbing his hand through his greasy hair. “ I’m sorry to have bothered you...I know that this is a bit unfair of me dropping by after a while and after I’ve had the cheek to not speak to you. I did read all of your letters...I just didn’t have the energy to reply to them and things haven’t been too good. I loved them all and I’ve read them on the train. Thanks for still writing them even though I’ve been awful.”

“What’s happened?” Mycroft asked. 

“It’s just been a rough time since I went home after I helped you unpack,” Greg tried to explain, hesitating as he spoke, struggilng to get the words out. 

  
“What happened?” Mycroft said. 

  
“I wouldn’t know how to start,” Greg shook his head and let out a bitter laugh. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“You could write it down in a letter and give it to me,” Mycroft suggested, standing up and moving to his desk to get his best paper and pen. “Writing usually helps me.”

  
Greg let out another unamused laugh and wrapped the blanket around himself tightly, his hands still gripping the mug trying to get as much warmth as possible from it. “I think that I am too tired to even scribble down a few words.”

Mycroft nodded and stood up once more, holding back a sigh. He reached out his hand for hold onto Greg but pulled back. He tried to ignore the ache in his chest, a strong sharp pain that only seemed to grow, threatening to consume him. 

  
“How long has it been since you’ve had a good night's sleep?” He asked softly. ” Four days? I can tell that you’ve been sleeping awfully and when have you had something proper to eat?” He knew the answer already, only asking in an attempt to block out the deafening silence. 

“I’ve not really had the time to do so,” Greg confessed with a rather sheepish expression on his face. 

“First thing that I am doing tomorrow is going shopping to make you some breakfast and get some food in you. You’ve lost a few pounds since I’ve last seen you.”

  
“You don’t need-” Greg said, stopping once Mycroft had given him a rather serious expression. “Thanks, Myc,” he added on. 

  
“I think that a shower is needed and for you to get some sleep,” Mycroft said gently, feeling considerably more grown-up than he had done so in a while. He would have to clear up the kitchen, removing his dirty dishes from the tea towel drawer that he had thrown them in before Greg arrived. He would have to tidy away his washing that he left on the drying rack, god forbid that Greg would see his underpants. 

He guided Greg into the bathroom and fiddled with the shower to get the water started, the pressure was appalling but it would be enough for Greg. “I’ll get some pyjamas for you to get changed out on and I’ll get some new sheets on the bed for you.”

  
“Where are you going to sleep?” Greg murmured. “You are not sleeping on the sofa because I’m here. You’ll do your back in.” 

  
“I do not mind,” Mycroft tried to reassure him. “It is only for a few nights. You would do the same for me.” 

  
“I’d let you just get into my bed,” Greg replied. “It’s two blokes sharing a bed, there’s nothing gay about it.”

Mycroft bit his tongue and resisted the urge to make a comment about what happened the last time that he and Greg ended up in a bed together. He did occasionally wonder what would have happened if Christmas would have turned out differently; mostly wondering if he and Greg would ever last. He did rather regret that mistake that he made almost a year ago- more so the things that he did not do. 

“I’ll let you take the shower, feel free to use my shampoo,” Mycroft said, quickly getting himself out of the room, stopping his eyes from drifting on Greg’s chest as he removed his shirt, throwing it to the floor. He had little hesitation about getting undressed in front of him, seemingly not to be modest in the slightest. 

He caught the glimpse of a scar that was on Greg’s side. It looked recent, still red and angry looking. He leaned against the door frame, trying to deduce what would leave a mark like that, shuddering when he realised that it looked as it had come from a blade. 

He couldn’t understand why Greg wouldn’t have told him about it. He knew that it would have been difficult to bring it up in conversation, but he would have thought that Greg would have told him about it. He would have gotten the first train down to London the moment that he would have found out. 

  
He pulled out his best pair of pyjamas from his drawer, knocked on the door and placed them on the radiator, trying not to look at Greg. He started to strip the bed and put on the nicest sheets that he owned, fighting with the duvet cover as he tried to put it on and nearly knocking down a pile of books on his nightstand and the cactus that Greg had gifted him in the process. 

He gathered up the sheets on the floor and quickly tidied up the room, sighing as he realised that he would have to schedule a trip to the laundrette sooner than he had expected. He inspected the contents of his fridge and made a short shopping list for a trip to the supermarket tomorrow, he would take Greg along with him, he did rather enjoy mundane tasks like it and deciding what tin of baked beans to buy. 

The shower seemed to help Greg, the hot water had turned his skin pink. It was a much welcome sight compared to how pale he had looked before. The sleeves and the legs of his pyjamas were slightly too large for him but Greg did not seem to mind too much, covering his hands with the sleeves of Mycroft’s best dressing gown to keep them warm. 

He looked at Greg and there was so much that he wanted to say to him; so many questions about what happened; why he hadn’t written or spoken to him for over a month; why he did not phone Mycroft to let him know that he had been hurt, he would have at least needed a day in the hospital with an injury like that. 

  
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Greg asked, a confused expression on his face. 

  
“What on earth has happened?” Mycroft asked, worry flooding into his voice and his voice tighter than he wanted, it felt as if he had a stone in his throat. “Why didn’t you tell me that you were in the hospital?!”

  
Greg let out a breath and wrapped his arms around his sides protectively almost like a hug, trying to comfort himself. “It was only a minor thing,” he muttered. “Nothing to worry about.”

“A minor injury is a papercut.”

Greg shifted to one foot to the other and sighed, running his hand through his wet hair. He perched on the foot of the bed and gave Mycroft a sheepish smile. “I did not want to worry you, I was only stabbed a little. It was just an idiot with a knife, completely off his face.”

Mycroft let out an amused laugh and shook his head in disbelief. “You used to tell me what you were having for breakfast or that you spoke to an old woman on the bus. I thought that you would have told me about going into hospital. I would have been down right away.” 

  
“I know,” Greg sighed. “I did not want to drag you down from Edinburgh and your new life because of me. It wasn’t worth it and I’m fine, it doesn’t even hurt that much now.”

  
“I would have still come down regardless,” Mycroft stated. “ Does your mum know about it? If she doesn’t know about it then you are telling her. I will have to do it myself.”

  
Greg shook his head and rubbed at his side absentmindedly. “I was going to tell her but she had enough to deal with.”

  
“She is your mother,” Mycroft sighed, rubbing his temple in the attempt to ward off the headache that was starting to form. “She would have been there to look after you. Please tell me that you were being looked after.”

  
“Andy looked after me and I had a few of the lads from work visit me as well.” 

  
Mycroft nodded and sat down on the edge of the bed, unsure if he was thrilled that Greg’s flatmate that he was clearly sleeping with was looking after him. He knew that he would have felt a throb of jealousy in his chest if he wasn’t so worried about Greg. 

“I should have told you, I’m sorry,” Greg sighed, squeezing Mycroft’s hand. “I didn’t want to worry you.”

  
“I thought that you were ignoring me, “ Mycroft confessed, a pained expression on his face. The words were difficult to say, almost painful. “I wrote two letters to you a week to get nothing in return. I did not know if something happened to you or I had done something wrong.”

“I was going to write to you or pick up the phone...It just got more and more difficult the longer I left it. I didn’t know what to say to you and I know that you would have come down. I didn’t see the point in dragging you down from Edinburgh.” 

  
Mycroft shook his head in disbelief and sighed once more, feeling as if he was deflating. “I thought that I was your best friend.” 

  
Greg suddenly looked more exhausted than he had done previously, the weight of the last month suddenly falling upon his shoulders. “You are my best friend,” he mumbled. “It is just difficult and there is no point worrying you.”

  
“I would be an awful friend if I didn’t worry about you,” Mycroft replied. “Has everything been alright?” 

Mycroft already knew the answer, there was something missing in Greg’s eyes, a certain light or spark he had was gone. It was the first thing that he had noticed about Greg when he walked in and it worried him the most. 

“It’s just been one thing and the other,” Greg sighed, scrubbing an exhausted hand across his face. “I don’t know where to start...I think that I’ve just realised that the world is fucked up...I know that it’s always been like that but you...I hoped that it would be a better place.”

A loss of innocence that he seemed to be going through. That light that was in Greg’s eyes was one of optimism, hope maybe. Whatever it was, it had gone out and Mycroft felt rather helpless, wishing that Greg had been in contact before, perhaps he should have been more persistent and kept on calling, Greg would have picked up the phone eventually or got back to him. 

  
“I can deal with dead bodies...it’s messed up that I can deal with it,” Gregs said, his voice sounding thick. “It’s dealing with the people who are alive and trying to help with what they’ve been through...the things that I’ve had to deal with... the ones with kids really get to you and you just realise how messed up the world is and people are... I don’t know if I can handle it.”

“What are you going to do?” Mycroft asked, swallowing hard. “ There is no shame in needing to leave.”

Greg shook his head and scrubbed his hand over his eyes, letting out a watery breath. “I can’t leave, I have to stick to it even if it gets to me.”

  
“Why’s that?” Mycroft asked. “I can ask my uncle if you need a job in an office.”

“I need to help look after my mum,” Greg let out a sigh, pinching himself hard in the attempt to prevent himself from crying. “My sister as well, she’s pregnant and the boyfriend has nothing to do with her, the bastard is out of the picture.”

“What about your father?” Mycroft asked, the feeling of dread creeping up on him, fearing that he knew the answer.    
  


“He died,” Greg said simply, letting out a watery laugh. “Had a heart attack and that was it. Didn't get to say goodbye to him or anything.”

“I’m sorry…” Mycroft wished he knew what to say other than those two words.

He moved to sit on the sofa, shifting Greg over slightly and wrapping an arm around him. He wished that he could be more comfort to him. He wondered if he should contact Rudy about Greg’s problems, perhaps he could get him moved. He knew that Greg wouldn’t accept any money or help, his pride would get in the way. 

  
“It’s not your fault and you didn’t like my dad,” Greg said, his voice muffled from being buried in Mycroft’s shoulder. “I shouldn't even be upset with how he had to me. I still hoped that he would get over it and we would get along. ”

“He was your father and you are allowed to be upset,” Mycroft said, reassuring him the best that he could. 

Greg pulled away and shook his head, scrubbing at his eyes hard. He let out a breath and sat up, forcing the sadness away from himself. Mycroft felt the ache in his heart throb. “I don’t even know why I’m here,” he confessed. “I just had to see you...I’m just so much better when you are around.”

  
“Greg-” 

A silence grew between them, uncomfortable and uncertain. Mycroft could not recall a time when their silences weren’t comfortable. He shifted on the sofa and looked at Greg. Greg did the same, seeming almost to be in debate with himself for a moment, his fingers were tangled up in Mycroft’s. Mycroft was not sure when he had done so but he did not move his hand. 

  
“What are you thinking-” 

  
Greg cut him off before he could finish his sentence. The kiss was rather wet, Mycroft could feel his tears on his cheeks from when he had been crying earlier on. He kissed him back without thinking for a moment, his head caught up in the sudden kiss and with everything that had happened. 

  
Mycroft let out a breath and placed a hand on his chest, holding him back. He had wanted to kiss him again since Christmas so badly and never thought that he would have the chance again, he wouldn’t have stopped him if the circumstances were different. It almost pained him pulling away. “ Greg,” he sighed. “This isn’t the time and I think that you are exhausted. I wouldn’t want you to do something that you regret.”

“Life is just too short,” he said, kissing Mycroft again.


	25. November 1989- Arthur's Seat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Mycroft carefully inspected the tins of baked beans on the shelf and carefully read the shopping list in his hand. He wondered about how much food he was supposed to get, it had been such a long time since he had to buy for more than just himself and he was unsure how long Greg was going to stay. '

_ November 1989 _

Mycroft carefully inspected the tins of baked beans on the shelf and carefully read the shopping list in his hand. He wondered about how much food he was supposed to get, it had been such a long time since he had to buy for more than just himself and he was unsure how long Greg was going to stay. 

He rubbed at his shoulder in the attempt to remove the ache that had formed after spending the night on the sofa. A part of him wondered if he should have gotten into bed with Greg, it would have been a lot more comfortable even if it would possibly ruin their friendship beyond repair. 

  
It was painful to turn Greg down last night, knowing too well that he wouldn’t get the chance again. He knew that he would regret it the moment that he made the decision but he felt as if he was taking advantage of Greg when he was vulnerable. 

Greg had insisted that he was fine and kept on kissing him even though his cheeks were wet. He kept insisting that he wanted to and that he was fine, intoxicated with grief and exhaustion, only stopping when Mycroft told him that he didn’t have condoms. He willingly let Mycroft guide him to bed without another word after that. 

“What type of beans do you prefer?” Mycroft asked, glancing over at Greg who was staring at the tins of soup. “Do you want regular beans for lunch or beans and sausages? I don’t have time to cook anything for lunch. We need to go to university for a lecture at one o’clock.”

Greg lifted his head up from the shelf with a tin of minestrone soup in his hand, placing it in the trolley. His movements are slow and almost clumsy from quickly being dragged out of his own thoughts. “You are bringing me to university? I’m not a child and I can be left alone.” 

“You will enjoy it,” Mycroft said, ignoring what Greg had said, forcing a tone of cheerfulness to his voice. “It is a seminar on eighteenth-century literature and we had to read Dr. Johnson. I’m sure that you will be able to contribute easily or just listen. I know that you do enjoy it. We are going to the drama society once this is over.” 

Mycroft crossed off the beans from his list, sighing to himself as the tins had gone up five pence since he had last been shopping. He inspected the list for the next item to find in the shop, trying to ignore the nagging feeling that he was annoying Greg more than actually helping him. He didn’t know what else he was supposed to do other than to keep Greg’s mind occupied even if it meant that he was making Greg follow him around like a puppy. 

Greg didn’t say anything in response and shrugged. His silences had been a common occurrence and were still deafening no matter how many times Mycroft had experienced them. 

He felt selfish for being bothered by them, he didn’t go through everything that Greg had been through recently. He tried to blame his recent frustration of the situation on his feeling of helplessness when it came to Greg. It was much more acceptable than being bothered by the fact that he had felt almost forgotten about by Greg and to have him turn up on his doorstep after over a month of silence. 

“This makes me think of the shopping trips that we had when we had the flat together,” Mycroft said cheerfully in the attempt to block out the oppressive silence. “Do you want to get something for pudding tonight? Custard? Or we can go to his bakery that I’ve discovered and get something from there. The one that I wrote to you about in a letter the other week.”

“I don’t mind,” Greg mumbled. “I’m not feeling too hungry.”

“You need to eat something,” Mycroft insisted lightly. “We can get a takeaway if you would like. Anything you want.”

Greg shrugged. “I really don’t mind.”

“Is there anything that you need right now?” Mycroft asked, slightly exasperated. He sighed and focused on his shopping list in the attempt to calm himself down and so that he wouldn’t make a scene. “What can I do? I don’t feel as if I’m helping you.”

“It’s fine,” Greg muttered, shaking his head. “I don’t need you fussing over me, you are almost being annoying. You’re not my mum. ”

  
“What am I supposed to do?” Mycroft asked cooly. “I spent over a month wondering if I have done something wrong. That perhaps I said something or written something wrong, that we were no longer friends. You never replied to any of my letters or picked up the phone once. You started doing this the moment that you left Edinburgh.” 

  
“Life just got busy,” Greg shrugged. “You know what happened.”

  
“ It doesn’t give you the excuse of coming to my home after so much silence and then you kiss me,” Mycroft said in a low whisper, silencing himself when an old woman started to take an interest in their conversation. “I just thought that I was your friend. You used to tell me everything and then it was just silence from you.”

  
“You are my friend!” Greg exclaimed. “You are being unreasonable about this.”

  
“I’ve got feelings as well,” Mycroft said cooly. “You just can’t pick me up and down when you want to. You have basically ignored me since I’ve moved up here and when you did pick up the phone, you never asked how I have been recent. I spent so much time thinking that I had done something wrong and then you kissed me. We almost ended up in bed last night. How long is it going to be until you lose interest and you don’t pick up the phone? You keep insisting that you are my friend but things have felt one-sided for a while..”

He placed the shopping trolley to the side of the aisle. He handed a twenty-pound note to Greg and shoved his wallet back in the pocket. “You can finish it off yourself. I want the receipt,” he said cooly. “I’m sorry with everything that you have been through but I can’t help you unless you give me something. “

  
“I’m sorry, ” Greg said as Mycroft made his way out of the aisle, not moving to follow him. 

  
A part of him wished that Greg followed him. He considered turning back and apologising for letting himself get frustrated, but he didn’t. Instead, he kept walking forward. 

* * *

His brogues were not the most appropriate shoes to wear for hill walking. The grass was wet from the rain from the evening before and the due on the grass making the bottom of the trousers dam but he did not say anything to Greg, who was walking ahead of him determined to get to the top in the few precious hours of daylight. 

He hadn’t asked Greg why he wanted to go to Arthur’s Seat that morning, he was rather thrilled that Greg had wanted to do something instead of staying in bed or staring out of the window curled up on the desk chair and smoking like a chimney, the book that he tried to read was left open on the table and unopened. 

He had taken Greg to the supermarket, laundrette, and even to university and to his classes or dropping him off in the university library over the last few days. He did not want to leave Greg alone and he had the feeling that Greg didn’t want to be on his own either but he didn’t say anything about it; neither pushing him away nor letting him know that he was doing the right thing and that is wanted. 

Greg looked over at his shoulder at him, an almost smile on his face- the first smile that Mycroft had seen since he had arrived in Edinburgh. He had missed his smile more than he could ever imagine, he wasn’t Greg without that grin of his. “Hurry up!” he called out. “ There are kids that make it up quicker than you.”

“My shoes don’t have a good grip,” Mycroft replied, panting slightly. “You never gave much warning about wanting to go hill walking.” 

“My shoes don’t have good grip,” Greg teased, putting on a plummy accent, a poor attempt at imitating his accent. “I thought that you would have gone for the student look and got yourself a pair of Doc Martens. Proper shoes.”

“I will keep that in mind and consult you before I buy myself a new pair of shoes,” Mycroft remarked breathlessly as he caught up to Greg, walking shoulder to shoulder with him now. 

  
They walked in silence, not quite comfortable but much more bearable compared to how things have been. They stopped occasionally to take pictures of the view with disposable cameras. Greg had insisted on taking photos of them together and took a picture of him when he wasn’t looking. Mycroft promised that he would develop the photographs when he was next in town and would send them in his next letter. 

He hoped that the photos would turn out looking fine, he never looked good in photographs and Greg still looked not like himself. He amused Greg by agreeing to get photographed, willing to do anything to get glimpses of the real Greg. He wondered if Greg was wanting to trap this moment of brief happiness in a photograph regardless of what had happened in the days before.

“We should stop here. I’m too tired to keep on walking and it is going to get dark soon, ” Greg said, dropping onto the grass and throwing his bag in front of him. He rummaged in his bag and pulled out a packet of tobacco and a hip flask. 

  
Mycroft nodded and sat down on the ground, the dampness of the ground soaking his trousers. He removed his jacket after a moment of careful consideration and placed it on the ground, sacrificing it to sit on it. He nudged Greg’s side, encouraging him to sit down on it. 

He watched Greg’s long fingers roll up a cigarette and put it between his lips as he lit it, staring out into the city. “It’s rather beautiful, isn’t it?” he asked. 

Mycroft nodded and tried to ignore the shiver that ran down him from the cold wind. He huddled closer to Greg in the attempt to stay warm, their knees knocking against another as they shifted on the ground from the stones that were poking into them. Their hands brushed against another too easily, Mycroft wishing that Greg would hold his hand or he would be brave enough to initiate. 

“I’m thinking that I’m going to go back to London tomorrow,” Greg said, turning to look at him. “I’m needing to get home, my mum is needing me.”

  
“Do you want me to come with you?” Mycroft asked the first words out of his mouth. “I can get a train ticket and pack a bag. I can stay in London as much as you need me to.”

  
Greg shook his head and let out a humourless laugh. “We both know that you won’t leave if you do that. “

“If it is for you then it will be worth it,” Mycroft murmured. 

  
Greg shook his head. “I can’t ask you to do that for me, Myc,” he said. “You’ve got uni to go to and a life here. I don’t want to drag you into my mess.”

“Is that why you never phoned me?” Mycroft asked, grimacing at the pained tone in his voice that he tried his best to suppress.

  
“I didn’t think that it was fair to take you away from your new life and drag you into my problems,” Greg muttered. 

  
“Is that not the role of a best friend?” Mycroft asked. “I know that you would do the same for me.”

  
“It’s just different.”

“How so?” 

“If I could tell you then I would,” Greg said, humorlessly.    
  


He accepted the cigarette that Greg offered to him and took a long puff. He spluttered as it burned his lungs and tried to take in as much air as he could in the attempt to remove the foul taste from his mouth. He always had that reaction to cheap tobacco. Greg thumped his back hard and took the cigarette from him. “When did you forget how to smoke?” he asked. 

“It does not agree with me,” Mycroft choked out. “I do not know how you can smoke that. It is awful. I thought that you were meant to be quitting. You mentioned it the last time that you phoned, just right after I moved in.” 

“Things have changed,” Greg said with a grimace. “I’m sorry that I’ve not phoned.”

Mycroft shook his head and sighed. “I shouldn’t have said that I’m sorry.” 

Greg shook his head and seemed to huddle closer to him. He ran his fingers through his hair and looked at Mycroft carefully, an unsure expression on his face as he tried to find the words to say. “I’ve been thinking,” he said after several moments. “I really need to apologise.”

“What for?” Mycroft asked, a confused expression on his face. “If it is about the tiff that we have had in the supermarket, I’m not bothered by it.”

“You were right though,” Greg said quietly, not looking at him. “I’ve not been a good mate."  


“Greg-”

Greg cut him off before he could get a sentence out. “Myc, just listen.” 

  
Mycroft nodded and sighed, scuffing the cigarette out on a rock when he realised that it was burning his fingers. 

“I should have written to you or at least picked up the phone once,” he said. “I’m sorry that I made you think that you’ve done something wrong. I did appreciate all of your letters.”

“Greg with everything that has happened-” 

Greg cut him off once more before he could finish off his sentence, shaking his head with a bitter laugh. “It wasn’t fair for me to just drop into your life after silence and then to kiss you. It wasn’t fair of me to do so. I ended up seeing someone for a bit right after you moved to Edinburgh, wasn’t anything serious but I stopped writing. I thought that I could cope with you being away with someone else to fill in the gap and by not writing. I started to miss you when I re-read all your letters and when a new one came in the post, well it was almost painful with how much I missed you.”

  
Mycroft bit his lip hard, keeping his mouth firmly closed unsure if he was allowed to talk or not. “You don’t need to apologise,” Mycroft finally uttered out, a stone settling in his stomach. “I do miss you terribly… I do quite possibly lov- I care for you a lot. You are a good friend and I value you a lot,” he said quickly, hoping that Greg was not quite listening to him.

“Kissing you felt as if it was the right thing to do but it wasn’t. If things were different then perhaps we would work...I don’t know if I was expecting things to just fix everything that has happened...fix what was missing in me ” Greg said, shaking his head as if he was trying to convince himself. “I think that I’m needing a friend more than a boyfriend. I’ve not been a good friend.”

“You are a good friend,” Mycroft said, trying to reassure him. “This is just a rough patch and things were going to be different between us with me up here and you in London. I’m at university and you have a job. We are in different life stages.” 

“I don’t see why things have to be different,” Greg said with a sigh, taking a sip out of the hip flask. “Things felt so much easier months ago. Did you ever think that it would be like this six months ago? Don’t start with this good damage thing of yours. I think that this is just damage.”

Mycroft opened his mouth and closed it again, unsure of what he was to say. He tried to ignore the feeling of crushing disappointment that had settled on top of his stomach from what Greg had said earlier. He knew that it was best to be friends than not at all even if he had been disappointed. It was the hope which was the worst part, disappointment seemed to take on a new flavour when it had been crushed. 

“Damage is just damage,” Mycroft uttered out, repeating the words that Greg had said to him months ago. “You shouldn’t keep it within you. You are allowed to be upset as he was your dad.”

  
Greg shook his head and took another sip from the hip flask, wincing slightly at what he had drunk. “I think that I’m just angry...Just angry about a few things.”

“What about?” Mycroft asked, unsure. “There must be something.”

“Just with how everything went. He ignores me for months and he’s been a right bastard for years. He was a drinker and mum had to work extra to cover the bills. The two of us have rarely gotten on before he only saw me as a queer instead of my son,” Greg said venomously. “Then at the funeral, everyone goes on about how great a bloke he was. I did wonder if I had turned up at the wrong funeral at one point.”

“That’s understandable why you would be angry,” Mycroft murmured. “I would have a similar reaction if I was in your shoes.”

Greg shook his head at himself, offering the flask to Mycroft who politely refused it. “ I don’t know if I was hoping for a moment that happens in the film, you know. That I would have this moment with him and then we would make up or at least say goodbye to another. Would you want that with your parents?”

Mycroft shook his head quickly. “I think that things between my parents and I are beyond repair. I know that a moment like what you have talked about would never happen. I know that happy endings and moments like that don’t happen - not for me anyway. ”

  
“Fuck your parents,” Greg spat out, taking a swig from the flask. “Fuck my dad.” 

He offered the flask to Mycroft once more. Mycroft took it and took a sip out of it. “Fuck your dad,” he repeated. 

He nudged Mycroft’s foot with his own. “Hey,” he said. “Will things be alright between us? I know that kissing you was not the best.”

Mycroft nodded and let out the breath that he was unaware that he was holding. “They will be,” he said mostly trying to convince himself more than anything. “What kiss?” he asked, feigning innocence. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Thanks, Myc,” Greg said, giving him an attempt at a smile. “For everything that you’ve done for me. I’ll get around to writing replies to your letters when I get back.”

“I can go to London with you,” Mycroft said again, hoping that Greg would have changed his mind. 

  
“I couldn't ask you to do that,” he said, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t want to drag you away from university and I’m needing some time to sort myself out.”

  
“You can find someone to talk to?” Mycroft offered. “I can help you find someone. I know that you might be hesitant but with everything that has happened, it might be beneficial.”

Greg shook his head, murmuring something about money. Mycroft knew that it was best to not argue with him, the ground suddenly underneath him suddenly felt more fragile and as if it would crumble underneath him. 

“Things are going to be alright,” Mycroft said to him, it felt as if it was the only thing that he could offer to Greg. “It is going to take time but they will be. They usually end up working out themselves.”

  
Greg nodded and sighed, squeezing Mcyroft’s hand. “You better be right about that, Myc.” 

“It will be, I’m always right about things,” Mycroft replied, reassuring him. 

“You are,” he said with a chuckle, suddenly sounding much more like himself. “That is one of the reasons I do like you so much.”

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading this story. This is the first time that I'm trying something like this and I'm excited to see how it turns out. 
> 
> I'm also looking for a beta for this story if anyone is wanting to help and it would be much appreciated! 
> 
> My Tumblr is Hogwartsjaguar97 if anyone is intrested.


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